


delicate

by the_wabbit



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, References to Depression, Self-Harm, This Story Will Be Depressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-03-29 18:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 104,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19025284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wabbit/pseuds/the_wabbit
Summary: In the tedious process of finding love and acceptance, Jeremiah Valeska loses the one thing that truly matters most in his life: family.





	1. Chapter 1

Parties have never been Jeremiah Valeska’s forte. Despite having only attended a mere few, he’s decided on his second attendance that it’s just simply not his cup of tea.

“Miah, _come on_ ,” his brother almost scolds, “Go with me.”

“For the last time, Jerome,” he drawls, “I’m not interested in… what you said, getting absolutely shit-faced hammered drunk tonight. I have a deadline that's coming up in two days and it's-”

Jerome stubbornly jabs a finger at his direction, “You and I both know that there's still plenty of fucking time.”

He sighs. Shrugging, Jeremiah makes a dissatisfied face and gestures pointedly at the clock on the wall, adamant to annoy his brother as much as he’s annoying him. “Well, technically,” Jeremiah begins, “judging from the time now, I’d say I’ve got less than the standard forty-eight hour period for the next two days, which means that the apparent number of hours until my deadline is approximately-”

Jerome shushes him abruptly and the other twin rolls his eyes. If there’s something that separates him from his identical twin brother, it’s everything aside from their looks and their cravings for cheeseburgers. Of the two, Jerome is the obvious wild card with his casual recklessness, spontaneous carefree attitude, alluring charm, and highly impeccable comedic timing.

Growing up, Jeremiah may have always been walking alongside his brother no matter what, but he'd never been able to step out of Jerome's looming shadow towering over him, even if he'd wanted to. His twin is just better at almost everything, Jeremiah thinks. He could charm his way into anything and take whatever he wants. He could effortlessly draw people's interests to him with just a simple 'hello'. Sometimes, Jeremiah wonders if they were in fact twins because how else could anyone explain the drastic differences between them.

Out of absolutely nowhere, Baby Shark starts playing from Jerome’s left pocket and the twin scrambles for a moment, retrieving his phone to hold it against his ear.

“Jesus, Jerome, I thought I told you to change that god-awful ringtone.” Jerome _is_ better at everything, and that also includes being an insufferably annoying jerk to Jeremiah as well. If it’s possible to roll his eyes to the back of his head out of pure annoyance, Jeremiah’s certain that it'd turn into a daily habit that he’ll be forced into from having to deal with his twin’s interminable nonsense. 

“Selina!” Jerome grins widely as he greets his friend on the phone, ignoring the moody sibling seated on the couch opposite his in their living room, “ _Yes_ , I’m on my way. Traffic's just a pain in the butt, ya know?” 

Jeremiah rolls his eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time of the day and stands on his feet, ready to leave.

Noticing that, Jerome blurts out to his friend in a hurry, “Hey, I'll call you back. Uh huh, uh huh. Got it. Ah, okay. Catch ya later!"

“Bye, Jerome,” Jeremiah says as he waves without looking back, heading to his room in hopes to finally find some peace that he so rightfully deserves.

“Fine, I yield!” Jerome exclaims tiredly, shoulders lowering with defeat, “Bruce Wayne is throwing this fucking party.”

His eyes widen at the mention of the name and Jeremiah spins around to make sure his brother’s not using it to mess with him. Apparently, as rare as it can be, Jerome is actually telling the truth.

“Bruce?” 

“Yes, Bruce,” Jerome recalls contemplatively, “Look, broski, I remember the way you talked about the Wayne kid when you were attached to that Wayne Plaza project with Thomas Wayne. Now, I admit that it was a little weird to find out that you were crushing on a minor two years back-”

“Jerome, stop.”

“-but now that the kid’s eighteen and you’re twenty-two, that seems alright in my book. So, as your best brother in the world and your obviously under-appreciated caretaker, I took the liberty to befriend his closest gal pal and got us an invitation to _the_ Bruce Wayne’s freshman party.”

Jeremiah blinks a few times. “How did you even know who his closest friend is?"

“Doesn't matter," his twin beams with a mischievous look in his eyes and continues, “What matters now is that Selina is waiting for us at the club and we should really move our asses. Like, right now."

Jeremiah eyes him suspiciously. Something's off about Jerome's mannerisms. He's up to something. "What is it, Jerome?" he asks. Jerome's smile widens into a cheshire grin and it suddenly becomes clear as day to Jeremiah.

He’s using Jeremiah, once again, to get a job done. Introducing him to Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah figures, just happens to be a coincidental perk.

"Please tell me this isn't part of your job," he almost pleads. He usually tries not to question about Jerome's work, not since their last incident and Jerome has since refused to leak anymore details about his illegal errands, but the situation is getting out of hand and he needs to get Jerome out before something truly terrible happens. Obviously, Jerome never listens so he’s forced to just wait for the opportune moment to show him that by working for Theo Galavan, Jerome’s bound to end up with more than 10 years in Blackgate or worse, dead.

"Oh, it's nothing, don’t worry," Jerome reassures innocently as he grabs Jeremiah by the shoulders and starts pushing him towards the door. "As much as I'd like to keep this conversation going, we really need to get out of here."

Jeremiah tries to flee from his grip but fails miserably. Eventually, he gives in, miserably, and decides that maybe this party is worth going to, considering that he'll get a chance to meet Bruce Wayne. He doesn't need to care about what Jerome will be doing. He really doesn't. Jerome will be fine.

 

~~~~

 

Jeremiah pulls up at the club and grimaces at the harrowing sight. There's an excruciatingly long line of waiting club goers stretching from the entrance to god knows where. He can't seem to pinpoint the end of the line and if it wasn't for Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah would've been more than ecstatic to turn the car around and head straight home.

"Okay, laying out the ground rules, broski," Jerome clicks his tongue twice and unbuckles his seat belt, "Number one, always keep an eye on the source of your drink. Don't accept anything from strangers or weird creeps to avoid getting drugged."

Jeremiah rolls his eyes as Jerome turns to the rearview mirror to fix or otherwise admire his own red hair. "Number two, do not over-consume because, hey, one of us has got to be the designated driver for tonight and it's sure as hell ain't gonna be me. Number three, have fun but-"

"Get out of the car," Jeremiah glances uneasily at his side mirror, "we're hogging the lane." Thanks to this new club, or maybe people just came to attend the party, double parking has reduced the once spacious two-way street to a one-and-a-half-way street. The longer Jeremiah remains parked outside of the club's entrance, the more congested the street becomes.

"Screw 'em, they can wait," Jerome chuckles, "What was I saying again?" Somebody honks from behind and Jeremiah shifts uneasily in his seat, eyes darting to his side mirror. "Well, I can't remember, thanks to you, " Jerome continues, not at all bothered about anything, "but number four is very, extremely crucial. It's a life-and-death-situation sort of important, Miah." Jeremiah shuts his eyes in frustration, somehow knowing fully well of what his brother is going to say. "Did you bring that whistle I gave you?"

"For God's sake, get out of the fucking car!"

Jerome bellows with laughter as he swiftly climbs out of the black Prius and shuts the door with a thud. It's times like these when Jeremiah can't comprehend how anyone else is able to put up with his brother's antics. Just how on earth does Jerome keep his friends; this question boggles his mind to no end sometimes.

Not long after, he finds a parking spot about a block away and hesitantly drags his feet to the crowd of university students lining up outside the club. It's definitely a seemingly never-ending line, there's no doubt about it, and Jeremiah's breath hitches at the thought of how packed it would be inside the enclosure. He silently curses Jerome for making him do this.

As he approaches the entrance, Jeremiah recognizes a few of his classmates from Gotham State and wishes the ground would just swallow him whole right then and there.

"Well, I'll be damned if it isn't Jeremiah Valeska," Tetch reaches out and slaps a hand on his shoulder, bringing him closer to their group. "And here I thought you were just dropping off Jerome. What exciting quality has brought you out of your shell, I wonder?"

"Fun?" Jeremiah replies awkwardly, drawing a few giggles from the girls in Tetch's group.

"Miah!" Jerome suddenly yells from the club's entrance and he breathes a sigh of relief, "Come on! Hey, hands off, Tetch!"

Immediately, Tetch withdraws his hand and shrugs at the giddy girls surrounding him. "Well, we'll see you and your brother around when we finally enter this damn club."

Jeremiah gives a small smile, nodding nervously at Tetch and his friends before hurrying towards his brother, keeping his head down and away from the wandering eyes of those still waiting in line.

Jerome flashes a devilish smile and flings an arm around Jeremiah's shoulder, leading him through the corridors and into the heart of the club. The overwhelmingly deafening EDM music that welcomes him also threatens to puncture his eardrums with every heavy bass drop, along with making his heart pound so hard against his ribcage that it feels as if it'll jump right out at any second. The music starts building up rapidly and suddenly, blinding green lasers shoot across the arena as another bass drops and the crowd flooding the dance floor erupts into cheers.

"You're here!"

Jeremiah jerks his head at the direction of a feminine voice and realizes that the girl, now wrapping her arms around both of them, must be Selina Kyle. Based on Jerome's brief description of her, the curly hair and love for all things black tells Jeremiah that he's right. When their eyes meet, Jeremiah flashes a small smile and nods politely.

"You must be Jeremiah!" Selina yells out loud enough so her voice isn't drowned out by the horrendous music.

"You don't happen to know where our lovely prince of Gotham's at, do ya?" Jerome arches his brow and Selina laughs.

"He's busy," she says, "but he'll show up soon!"

"I hope so!" Jerome jabs a finger at his brother's chest, "He's been dying to meet him."

Jeremiah tells himself that Jerome deserves an elbow to the gut and feels a tad bit of satisfaction when he hears Jerome wincing at the merciless jab of his elbow.

"You guys wanna dance?!” Selina offers excitedly, “God knows when Wayne is gonna show up. Plus, this place is amazing!"

Jeremiah’s eyes widen. He acknowledges the sea of heads - literally, just heads - on the dance floor and, no, he can’t bring himself to be near _that_ , let alone dance in _that_. He can’t even dance! As Jerome steps forward to follow their new friend, Jeremiah presses the back of his hand across his chest to stop him.

"You go," he tells him, "I'll catch up later."

"Miah," Jerome protests.

"Go have fun,” he insists, “but look for me when Bruce Wayne gets here.”

Jerome sighs. "Alright, fine. But make sure that phone of yours doesn't die within the next five hours or something. And don't forget my four rules!"

Jeremiah shoves at him to leave and Jerome laughs. Five hours, Jeremiah thinks to himself, slightly amused, they’re not going to be here for that long. Then, he's slapped with a sudden strong wave of uncertainty and Jeremiah stops himself in his train of thought. _Wait, are they?_

He needs a drink. He needs it now. Jeremiah settles down at one of the bar stools and notices a bartender approaching from the corner of his eye. He looks up and freezes. Ocean blue eyes and broad shoulders. Tall. Blonde hair. Seemingly buff under his expensive black suit. His eyes flutter to the man's arms and for a second, Jeremiah forgets how to breathe.

"What can I get you?"

"Um…" Jeremiah stutters helplessly. He should really stop staring at his arms.

"Hello?" the bartender waves at Jeremiah's face, lowering his own head to meet his gaze, and Jeremiah softens a little as he spots a beaming smile on the man's face. "Need anything?"

"I-I don't really know," he gulps, "What do you recommend?"

"Well, customers say that I make a mean Moscow Mule, but for you," he arches a brow and Jeremiah hates himself for putting _himself_ in this situation, "how about a Bee's Knees or Sex on the Beach?"

Jeremiah flusters. He can't help it. He opens his mouth to say something but can't exactly form any words until a few dreadfully long seconds later. "You decide," he blurts out when he finally gathers enough courage to look at the bartender in the eye.

"Sex on the Beach it is. You look like you need it." The bartender grins even wider and throws him a casual wink before retreating to his workstation.

Jeremiah freezes in his seat. All of a sudden, he doesn't know what to do. He absent-mindedly fidgets with his fingers, feeling as though his legs are slowly melting into the stool. At this point, his anxiety is getting so bad that he wants to leave the bar to look for Jerome, or for anything familiar to cling on to calm himself, but then he spots Jerome chugging drinks like there's no tomorrow at one of the tables surrounded by dozens of his friends, and Jeremiah chickens out.

He can hear the bartender fixing his drink nearby and Jeremiah knows that he'll probably try to start a conversation with him once he's done. Jeremiah can't bear the thought of embarrassing himself further with his awkwardness and rusty social skills.

So, he calls one of his closest friends to look for comfort instead.

"Hello? Oh my God, what is that noise?" he hears an audible gasp and sighs as Ecco questions with a hint of excitement, "Jeremiah Valeska, are you at a club?"

"Help me," he pleads.

Ecco's sudden laughter rings in his ear. "No, you deserve to have fun! It's about time."

"It's too loud in here. I can barely hear myself think. There's nothing at all that's interesting in this place, Ecco, and the people are...," Jeremiah spots Jerome grinding against some random girl on the dance floor with a glass in his hand and scowls with disgust, "Animals, all of them."

"You're talking about Jerome, aren't you?"

"You know me well," Jeremiah smiles just a little.

"Aside from your brother, I know you best."

His drink arrives and Jeremiah shyly nods at the bartender, who still has the same irresistible smile plastered on his face.

"Let me know if you need anything else," he says, holding his drink in front of him instead of setting it on the bar.

Jeremiah exhales. He tries his damn best to carefully retrieve the drink from the bartender's hand and yet he still manages to accidentally brush his fingers against the other man's. He does everything he can to keep himself from bolting to the nearest exit. "Thanks," Jeremiah blurts out nervously. The bartender looks amused.

"Who're you talking to?" Ecco asks curiously.

"The bartender," Jeremiah replies as he watches the man return to work.

"Why are you calling me, Jeremiah? You should be talking to the people around you. That's called socializing, you know?"

"I'm not comfortable with it."

"Just give it time," Ecco reassures calmly, "You're smart enough to figure it out."

"I'd honestly rather be talking to you," Jeremiah admits quietly, "Less stressful."

"That's what I'm here for," Ecco says and Jeremiah’s lips eases into a genuine smile for the first time that day.

 

~~~~

 

Jerome catches a glimpse of his brother sitting alone by one of the bars with his phone against his ear. Typical, he thinks. He knows who's on the other end of the call and as much as he'd like to usher Jeremiah out of his seat to have some fun on the dance floor, Jerome lets him be.

Warm lips press against the crook of his neck and Jerome lowers his eyes to the girl in his arms. "Your place or mine?” she asks, running her fingers through his hair. It's going to be a good night, Jerome thinks to himself and sort of wishes that he isn’t as drunk he is, but that's before he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

“My bad,” Jerome rolls his eyes, “Gotta take this call.” The girl furrows her eyebrows in confusion when she notices the familiar sound of his Baby Shark ringtone as he retrieves his phone.

"Mr. Galavan," Jerome greets, "What can I do for ya?"

 

~~~~

 

Jeremiah doesn't know how long he's been on his phone, but he does notice that the horde on the dance floor has subsided a bit when he ends his conversation with Ecco. He darts his eyes around in hopes to find Jerome, but he’s nowhere to be seen. "Shit," he mutters to himself. A minutes passes and Jeremiah gets more and more anxious about his brother’s absence, but then he spots the twin loitering at a bar on the far right of the dance floor. Surprisingly, he’s alone.

As he gets up to leave, Jeremiah hears the bartender calling out to him.

“Leaving so soon?”

Despite wanting to make up a good excuse, Jeremiah opts to tell him the truth instead. “I need to get back to my brother. He can’t function on his own when he’s drunk.”

“Does the same apply to you?” he asks, leaning in to retrieve Jeremiah’s empty glass without breaking eye contact.

“I… Maybe?” Jeremiah breathes in nervously.

“Well, I’d like to find out someday,” the bartender smiles, “You get nervous easily. It’s kind of adorable.”

Jeremiah doesn’t what to say. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t even know how to function anymore.

“What’s your name?” the bartender asks.

“Jeremiah,” he stutters, “Valeska.”

The man nods. “I’m Steve,” he pauses like Jeremiah did before and continues, “Rogers.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Steve,” Jeremiah responds, glancing over to his brother to make sure he’s still there, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“Understood,” Steve nods, “I’ll see you again, Jeremiah.”

He feels as though he’s floating, as if his legs aren’t really touching the ground as he walks away from the bar. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever meet Steve again, but he can’t imagine what will happen either when he does.

Jeremiah hates feeling this way. He hates letting his emotions get the better of him. He hates that he gets too attached too quickly and he hates that it reduces him into such an inferior state where he becomes so unsure of himself, so repulsively impulsive, and so very helplessly pathetic. Overwhelmed with a sudden rage and frustration, he shoves that thought to the back of his mind and decides to forget everything about it. Nothing happened at the bar. There was no Steve, he forces himself to accept this new truth.

Jeremiah grits his teeth as he makes his way towards his brother, watching him down another drink as if he intends to drown himself with it. Unlike Jerome, Jeremiah wants to be left alone and prefers to be for a reason. He simply doesn’t trust himself. He knows what he’s capable of and what will happen if he lets go of the control he has over his inner demons. But everybody has their own demons, don’t they? The darker parts of themselves that they stash away so society accepts them for who they seemingly are. Jeremiah has been doing that since the day when he and his brother left their real home.

When he reaches the bar, Jeremiah tugs at his clothes absent-mindedly, a habit that he does when he attempts to calm himself down and revert to being - as Jerome calls it - a healthy, normal, functioning human being. Jeremiah figures out while still in middle school that meticulously crafting and wholly adopting this outer personality helps him to blend in with everyone else, since he doesn’t possess his brother’s magnetic charm to do so.

At the bar, he watches unsatisfactorily as Jerome throws an olive into the air and fails to catch it with his mouth, and then, for some reason, lets out a shrieking laughter as though it’s the funniest thing in the world.

"Having fun?” Jeremiah asks.

"Miah!! I was wondering when you're gonna show up," Jerome heaves himself onto his elbows, leaning forward against the bar, "Barkeep, he'll have what I'm having."

"No thanks," Jeremiah tells the bartender and turns towards his brother, "Just how drunk are you planning to be tonight?"

"As much as I fucking well please.” Jerome hiccups and actually chuckles at the sound of his own hiccup.

"Where're your friends?"

"Dance floor, maybe," he drowsily scans the area and gives a lazy shrug, "Or maybe they're off somewhere snorting my shit, I don't fucking know."

Jeremiah grabs his arm in a flash, fingernails digging into the black leather jacket as he warns, “Keep your voice _down_.” He inconspicuously eyes his surroundings and speaks, calmly this time, after making sure they're not within anyone's hearing range. "I’m not going to ask about what your boss is making you do here, Jay, but keep your trap shut if you know what’s best for you."

"I’m sensing anger,” Jerome retorts sarcastically.

“I'm being serious, Jerome.”

“Hey, hands off the merchandise," his twin protests as he weakly attempts to tug his arm out of his brother's death grip, “Leave. Me. Alone.”

"Why are you acting like this?” Jeremiah asks, “What happened?”

"Nothing you should be bothered about, obviously," he mumbles to himself, "You're no part of it, remember? Because you won't help! Nope, you won't do it, but of course you wouldn't, why would you?" At one point, Jerome tiredly rests his chin on the table, his slur of words become barely audible as he speaks with his mouth muffled against his leather jacket.

"That's it, we're leaving." Jeremiah instantly moves behind Jerome to prop his arms under his armpits and tries to lift him onto his feet.

"No," Jerome struggles, failing miserably as he tries to wriggle out of his brother's hold, "I'm staying. Let… the fuck, let me go!"

"Jerome, stop resisting!"

"JeRoMe, StOp ReSiStInG."

Out of drunk desperation, Jerome reaches for the stool next to his and begins pulling himself towards it, not caring about how ridiculous he looks as he tries to escape from Jeremiah's surprisingly powerful grip. Somehow, Jerome succeeds and Jeremiah is now struggling to get ahold of his brother.

"Jero-"

And that's all that Jeremiah manages to say before he watches his twin brother's hand slip from the bar stool and Jerome drops onto the cold, hard ground like a sack of potatoes.

He draws out a long sigh, bending over to pick Jerome up by his arm, adamant to get him home. "Why do I keep putting up with you?" Jeremiah curses under his breath as he tries to lift the stubborn dead log from the ground.

Suddenly, an arm clad in black appears and grabs onto Jerome's left arm. "Need a hand?" Jeremiah hears the stranger’s voice and he almost trips over himself as he looks up, his brain registering the face of the boy hovering above his.

It's Bruce Wayne.

He gapes speechlessly as he watches Bruce Wayne hitch an arm around Jerome's and rather effortlessly heaves him onto his feet. He gulps when Bruce Wayne props Jerome into his arms, laughing a little as he steps back to give the brothers some space.

"Is he always like this?” Bruce Wayne smiles with an unmistakably genuine amusement in his eyes. This is really happening, Jeremiah thinks, and he finds it difficult to breathe. He’s finally met Bruce Wayne in person.

Jeremiah notices the amusement fading just a bit in the boy’s eyes - perhaps, due to confusion - as they dart back and forth between Jerome's face and his.

"We're… uh, we’re twins," Jeremiah lets out a nervous laugh and awkwardly shifts his weight while holding onto Jerome's almost lifeless body.

"Sorry, that was rude of me to stare," the boy shakes his head at himself.

"...'s fine," Jerome slurs, waving a heavy hand at the Wayne boy, "We'reusedtoit.",

"Pardon?"

"He said we're used to it.”

Bruce laughs again and Jeremiah can't help but return a smile of his own. It still seems so surreal that he’s in the same proximity as the boy he’d first seen talking to his father/Jeremiah’s employer outside their meeting room in Wayne Tower merely two years ago. He didn’t know of his age back then. It was his mistake.

Jeremiah shifts his weight again, silently cursing Jerome for weighing a tonne and considers simply dropping him on the floor again because that’s where he belongs. He doesn't know if Bruce notices his struggle to carry his dead log of a brother, but Bruce smiles once again and extends his hand. "I'm Bruce Wayne," he says, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Jeremiah gapes at the hand. He tells himself to screw it and drops Jerome on a nearby stool without a care, extending his own arm to accept the handshake and tries not to melt into the warm touch of Bruce’s palm. "Likewise," he says a little too quickly, faintly hearing Jerome groan in pain beneath them, "I wish the circumstances were better."

Struggling to stand up, Jerome points a finger at Bruce and almost stumbles towards him as he takes a drunken step forward. "You did that on purpose," he says accusingly.

Noticing that Jerome’s erratic behavior is seemingly getting worse by the second, Jeremiah quickly grabs onto one of Jerome’s arms and lifts it over his own shoulder, deciding to promptly remove him like the tumor that he is and hopefully leave a better impression of himself in Bruce's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Bruce,” Jeremiah says apologetically, “but it seems that my brother is unfit to be functioning in public right now. Perhaps we can talk again soon?"

"Of course," Bruce nods with understanding, "I'll just ask Selina for your number, since you're, well, occupied."

Selina Kyle has his number? She doesn’t, actually, and Jeremiah can only hope that Jerome would pass him the phone when Bruce finally does call.

"Wait," Bruce calls out as he turns to leave, "I didn't get your name."

"You can call me Jeremiah,” he smiles warmly, “It’s really nice meeting you, Bruce.”

Somehow, Jeremiah doesn’t feel as nervous anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! 
> 
> Hi! 
> 
> I hope you liked the chapter! 
> 
> Please do leave a comment to let me know what you think, or what I could improve on, or if I should tone down the childishness because I get it, this story feels pretty childish.
> 
> However, angst will follow in future chapters, people are going to die and characters are going to hate themselves. At least that's the plan for now :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Jeremiah knows that he looks like an idiot, but he just couldn’t help himself. All this seems too good to be true, but it is and he has never felt more alive. He pulls up at a traffic light and, for some odd reason, Jeremiah turns to look at the car on his left, noticing a sweet-looking old lady behind the steering wheel, a turquoise scarf draped around her neck for the chilly night. She smiles at him but Jeremiah doesn’t bother to reciprocate, because there’s a smile already plastered on his face ever since he left the club.

He hears Jerome sniffling in the back seat and glances at his direction. The jerk is still asleep. The traffic light flashes green and Jeremiah takes a right turn. Guiding his drunk twin out of the club turns out to be more challenging than Jeremiah had anticipated. He estimates Jerome to weigh the same as his self but it doesn’t feel like it when he has to literally drag him out of the building and locate his car parked a block away. When Jeremiah manages to open the passenger door, struggling as he does, he shoves his twin into the back seat without bothering to check if Jerome is at all comfortable.

During the drive, Jeremiah naturally recalls his conversation with Bruce and the memory of it makes his heart flutter. He never thought he’d see Bruce again, or perhaps, maybe not so soon. Their long-awaited meeting is so vastly different from what Jeremiah had imagined it to be. He'd always wondered how Bruce would sound like, how their conversations would be like, how it’d feel to have Bruce stand close enough for Jeremiah to reach out, to pull him in closer and... He doesn't let his mind wander too far, knowing what will inevitably happen if he does.

Not long after, the twins arrive home, causing a racket that echoes throughout the hallway as they stumble through the apartment door. Jerome’s resting most of his weight on the arm he’d swung over Jeremiah’s shoulders while Jeremiah struggles to keep both of them upright and from toppling over onto the wooden floor. Then, without any warning, Jerome starts belting ‘You’re my Honeybunch, Sugarplum’ into his ear and Jeremiah immediately lets go of him, watching his twin slide fluidly onto the floor into a cross-legged position. The little demon sleepily looks up at Jeremiah with a surprisingly genuine and friendly smile as he sings, "You're my Sweetie Pie.”

Annoyed, Jeremiah glares daggers at him. "Fuck off, Jerome."

His twin lets out a shrieking laugh and topples onto the floor onto his back, legs sluggishly unfolding in front of him.

"You're sleeping on the floor tonight," Jeremiah says as he shrugs off his coat, "just so you know."

"Whatever," Jerome snickers, "Hey, Miah, which one’s better? This or my ringtone?"

“Neither, you prick. In fact, both make me want to call the doctor again to resume my medication." Jeremiah rolls his eyes as he drops his coat onto the dark purple couch and begins loosening his tie. "Honestly, I thought you'd be tired of that ringtone by last Thursday."

"I did," Jerome exclaims, "but nothing beats the look on your face whenever you hear it." He cackles maniacally to himself and Jeremiah sighs. This is what he has to deal with when Jerome gets drunk. A few seconds pass by and Jerome realizes that he didn’t hear any response from his brother. He peeks at the living room and realizes that the other twin is already heading for his bedroom with his coat in hand.

"Good night," Jeremiah simply says before he shuts the door behind him.

Jerome frowns in disbelief. How dare he leave him on the floor like this? His younger twin obviously doesn’t have the same decency as his self, given that Jerome has helped get him into bed, because he was too drunk to do so, in more than two occasions! That’s a whole lot, Jerome thinks. Well, whatever. Jerome couldn’t bother to care. He’s too exhausted anyways. "Good night," he sleepily mumbles in reply to his brother before letting himself drift off to sleep.

 

…………

 

_One…_

 

_Two…_

 

_Three…_

 

_Four…_

 

_“Hide, Jeremiah,” their mother whispers. Jerome hears his brother giggling, little feet tapping away softly on the ground as he does exactly what he’s told to do. Jerome smirks as he carries on counting, small hands hovering over his own eyes. He peeks through his fingers a little and sees nothing but the woods in front of him. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he catches Jeremiah running into a nearby bush and he snickers mischievously to himself. He’s going to win this game._

_“No peeking, Jerome.” He hears his mother say. Oh, how adoring she had sounded. If only..._

 

_Five…_

 

_Six…_

 

_Seven…_

 

_“What the fuck are you doing?!”_

 

_Eight…_

 

_“LILA, DON'T!”_

 

_Nine…_

 

_Ten…_

 

_Jerome turns around and sees his mother being tackled onto the ground._

_An old rusty axe dislodges from her visibly sweaty grip. She screams._

 

…………

 

The next morning, Jerome wakes up to the sound of the coffee machine, an ache in his back from sleeping through the entire night on the unforgivingly hard surface and the dryness in his throat. Also, he has a migraine and a funny feeling of discomfort in his stomach. He prods himself up onto his elbows and squints at the sunlight attacking him through the windows. How dare they be wide open? He sees his twin on the couch with a book in one hand and a cup of coffee in another.

"You're alive," Jeremiah states without sparing him a look, but Jerome does spot an upward quirk on the side of his lips.

"If this is what it feels like to be alive, I'd rather die."

"Stop being dramatic," Jeremiah takes a careful sip from his coffee as his fingers work to turn a page, "You brought it onto yourself."

With all of the remaining strength in his body, Jerome uses it to push himself up from the ground and drowsily attempts to stand on his two feet. "What time is it?" he groans and feels his legs wobble beneath him. The more energy Jerome exerts, the dizzier he gets.

"Seven thirty."

Jerome blinks a few times. "And you already have coffee made?" He unsteadily makes his way towards the couch.

"I couldn't sleep."

"...oh.”

Settling by his side, Jerome watches his twin attentively. There’s a slight furrow between his eyebrows and Jerome’s not sure if it’s a result from reading or if it’s the usual aftermath of Jeremiah having to relive his stowed away memories. Unlike his twin, the nightmares barely affect Jerome anymore, or at least he'd like to think so. Sure, he'll find himself sweating profusely when he wakes up sometimes, but more often than not, he shrugs it off and moves on. There's nothing he can do about them. The recurring dreams come and go whenever they please, simply determined to remind him of his dreaded past in case he ever forgets. Jerome reckons that it's the price he pays for having an abusive psychotic murderous wench for a mother.

The nightmares don't bother him. Really, they don't, Jerome tells himself. He's perfectly fine. But if they do bother him at some point, he'll cope.

He'll cope with fun.

Sometimes, Jerome finds it by beating random punks, while on the job, to the extent where his knuckles eventually tear and bleed, and he doesn't stop there. At times, he carves, skins, scalps and mutilates them for shits and giggles. On occasions, he’ll even ache for the pain that his whore of a mother used to inflict upon his skin and bones, so he’ll engross himself into the role of the victim, welcoming with open arms and desperately savouring each kick and punch as he gets his own senses beaten out of him. Jerome can't explain the odd satisfaction that he derives from pain, be it inflicting or inflicted on. The high that comes with it… It’s deliciously addictive. It's his medicine and he needs it. Needless to say, Jeremiah hates it whenever he stumbles home from work with bruises and gashes all over his face. "You're fucking unbelievable," he'd once told him. Jerome simply laughed. There's a reason for why Jerome chose to work for Theo Galavan. He's able to get away with the sick demented shit that he does. The pay checks are merely a bonus.

Jeremiah runs a finger along the edge of the page as he reads and Jerome notices a slight agitation in his twin’s heavy breathing. He honestly doesn’t find Jeremiah’s previous way of coping effective at all. What _can_ a therapist do, at this point in their lives? They’re too damaged to be patched up and thrown back into society as healthy, normal, functioning human beings. They’re too broken to be fixed. He’s accepted it, and to his relief, Jeremiah is beginning to as well.

"The same old?” Jerome asks quietly.

His twin nods as he takes another sip from his coffee.

"Need anything?” Jerome generously offers, “Pancakes? Warm milk and cookies? Oh, how about a cheeseburger? Pea soup? If you’re not hungry, _maybe_ I could give you _something_ from my stash.”

“I am not taking any drugs from you, Jerome.”

"You’ll never know when you need it," Jerome smiles slyly, "Plus, you don't make reading look like a tonne of fun.”

Jeremiah rolls his eyes as he turns to the next page.

"Okay, pretty boy," Jerome exasperates as he mimics his twin's eye roll, "Do you wanna talk? Share your feelings like your shrink used to make you do?"

It takes a second but Jeremiah eventually nods at the suggestion. "That actually sounds like a good idea," he says. Well, that's a surprising start. Getting Jeremiah to open up has never been an easy task and Jerome smugly considers it a small win, although Jeremiah isn’t exactly about to pour his feelings out. He simply claps his book shut and whacks it across the side of Jerome's head.

"Ow! The fu-"

"What happened to you last night at the club?" Jeremiah questions sternly.

"What the fuck happened??"

The other twin arches a brow in disbelief. "You were drinking yourself to death."

"No!” Jerome denies almost immediately and gets another smack on the head. He's going to make this little brat pay, Jerome swears by it. "Fucking do that again, Jeremiah, and you can say goodbye to that fucking book when it flies out that fucking window."

His twin flings the book carelessly to his side as he points an accusing finger at his face. "You embarrassed me in front of Bruce," Jeremiah hisses.

Jerome blinks. Did he? He squints as he tries to remember but… well, shit, he can't seem to recall anything that happened at the club, except for some vague flashing memories of the music, some dancing and, oh, the drinking. "I don't recall," he states.

"I'd be surprised if you did."

Jerome chuckles, flashing a cheeky grin. "So, how was the meet and greet? Come on, broski, gimme details. Minus my involvement, of course."

"Unfortunately, you were involved in every second of it."

"Well, erase me, whatever," Jerome exclaims, "How's the Wayne kid?"

Jeremiah turns to him and Jerome notices the exhaustion in his eyes. Trying to coax his twin to smile, Jerome beams at him, but the other redhead remains to be as stoic as ever. He tries to lighten the mood by playfully wiggling his eyebrows.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Jeremiah asks with a cautious tone, "Nothing happened between Bruce and I."

Jerome chuckles again. "Whoever said something happened between you and _Bruce_?"

"Well, then stop staring at me like that, it's like you're implying something else."

Oh, this is fun. Truth be told, Jerome isn't implying anything, but since his twin is adamant on clinging onto _that_ assumption, he can't help but tease him a little. "I don't think I'm the problem here, brother," Jerome flashes another cheeky grin, "You're the one who should get that mind of yours out of the gutter."

With that, Jeremiah blushes. Instantly. "Y-you should brush your teeth," he stutters, "I can smell your breath from here."

Jerome watches - he's very amused - as his brother fidgets with his own fingers, then awkwardly swooping the book from the couch, working extra hard to find the last page he'd been reading. He notices the change of color in his brother's face and snickers.

"Shit," Jerome says, "Ya know, you should really take a look at yourself, Miah. Oh my God, your ears!"

"Shut up, Jerome!"

Jerome bursts out laughing, earning himself another smack across the head with the same book and this time, Jeremiah makes sure it _hurts_.

It takes a second for Jerome to tackle his brother on the couch, diving forward to snatch that cursed book from his hand and Jeremiah swiftly blocks Jerome's attack with an elbow to his chest. His other hand holds onto the book for dear life, extending as far away from Jerome's clawing clutches as it can possibly reach. Jeremiah shouts for his twin to stop but to no avail. A sudden swishing sound makes Jeremiah realize that the more that Jerome is pushing into his left elbow, the more danger that will inevitably befall upon his lovely cup of morning joe, now gripped tightly in his left palm.

"Watch the coffee!" Jeremiah yells.

 

~~~~

 

The radio plays.

“ _Good morning_ to you wonderful people at Gotham City! It’s eight o’clock on this fine Saturday morning and for breakfast, we'll be diving into all things politics, starting with Gotham's very own Oswald Cobblepot running for campaign to be mayor…"

Bruce Wayne glances at the sleek side mirror and takes a hard right, stomping on the accelerator as he exits Crime Alley. A gradual smile forms on his face as the engine roars to life, his newly attained vehicle racing towards home across the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge.

"Outstandingly impressive, I'd say. Cobblepot may just be the perfect candidate that Gotham needs, but then again, competition is tight with newcomer Theo Galavan who has also proven himself to be worthy for the office!"

Bruce briefly scans around the cabin as he drives, smelling the aroma of his new leather seats. He allows himself to admire the grand build of the exquisite interior, how the steady yet rigid steering wheel feels beneath his grip, and how effortlessly he’s able to cut through traffic whenever he wishes. Bruce briefly wonders if he could afford stall a little longer to drive a little further, but alas, he needs to get home. Pronto.

Bruce had attended a charity auction hosted by Theo Galavan in the Diamond District on Friday night. Prior to his arrival, he’d called his closest friend, Selina Kyle, announcing that he’ll be late for the party. She understands, of course. They’ve discussed this before. Rumors are abundant regarding the newcomer running for office, both good and bad, and Bruce is more than intrigued to find out who this man truly is. Curiosity has always been his weakness, as much as it is his strength.

In his effort to befriend Galavan, and to make a point of being truly genuine, Bruce decides to lose nearly two million dollars to win a Lamborghini at the auction. He sees the posters exhibited by his grand prize and reassures himself that most of his money is definitely not going to waste. The objective of the charity auction, after all, is to donate all proceeds gained to Gotham's homes for children with special needs. Bruce believes that Galavan would fulfill his role as the generous philanthropist for the sake of his reputation and campaign, but who's to say that he wouldn't swallow a portion of the money to fund his own activities?

Upon meeting in person, Bruce finds the man to be rather sketchy, his instincts telling him that he’s merely speaking to an outer persona fabricated to mask his underlying deceitfulness and mendacious character. Allowing him to run the city as mayor will prove to be a gigantic mistake.

Bruce cuts through traffic with ease, occasionally glancing at the ocean over the bridge. The bright blue sky and giant hovering clouds signify a good day ahead, if Bruce survives the morning, of course. He doesn't look forward to the scene he know he's about the face when he returns home. Soon, the picturesque view disappears and Bruce finds himself driving through the familiar stretch of green grassy plains that leads up to the grandiose gates of Wayne Manor.

Bruce waves at the call box. "Alfred, open up!"

“Right away, sir."

He speeds through the opened gates and into the garage, promptly parking the black Lamborghini at the far right corner of the enclosure before scurrying out of his seat. A nearby door suddenly swings open and Bruce freezes like a deer in headlights.

“Now, where on earth did you get that?” Alfred asks, dumbfounded.

“Alfred, relax,” he says cautiously, forcing a smile, “The money goes to charity.”

“Would you like to elaborate, Master B?”

A nervous laugh escapes from his throat. “I’ll explain everything later.”

“Well then,” the butler gestures for him to follow, “Come along now. You’ll have plenty of time to do that over breakfast.”

Bruce takes his cue to tag along as his butler leads him into the manor., “I hope they’re still in bed,” Bruce says.

“Oh, Master B," Alfred smiles at him, "Surely, you know that _that’s_ absolutely bollocks.”

These are one of those times when Bruce truly wonders if Alfred has ever been wrong, because there she stands when they enter the kitchen, rummaging through one of their cabinets to retrieve some empty glasses for breakfast.

“Good morning, Mom,” Bruce greets.

Martha Wayne glances around, retrieving her final glass before shutting the cabinet door. "The prodigal son returns," she laughs, moving gracefully to the counter with four empty glasses, “Sit down here right now, young man. You're in trouble."

Bruce apologizes as he sits at the dining table while his mother fills a glass with freshly made orange juice. "I didn't mean to make you worry," he adds as she pushes the glass towards him.

"I wasn't worried, Bruce. Your father and I know very well that you're capable of looking after yourself," Martha says, passing a second glass of orange juice to Alfred who accepts it graciously. "Though it would've been nicer for us to know where you'll be spending the night if it's not here, won’t you agree?"

He nods. "I promise I'll text next time, Mom.”

"I hardly think a simple text would suffice, Martha.”

Immediately, Bruce tenses up at the familiar stern voice coming from the kitchen doorway. His eyes naturally dart towards his other guardian for safety, but instead of offering him comfort, Alfred merely watches him with amusement in his eyes.

“Where were you, Bruce?"

To say that Thomas Wayne isn't at all intimidating, as told to Bruce by many of his friends, is absolutely complete and utter bullshit. His father’s able to instill fear in Bruce when he needs to.

"At the club," Bruce admits.

“The one you bought last week, am I correct?"

“Yes…”

“Can you explain the car?”

Martha perks up, seeming slightly confused at her husband's question. "What happened to the car?" she asks, turning to Bruce for answers.

"Mom, nothing happened to your car,” he raises his hands defensively at his mother, “I just bought another one from an auction, but I can explain-"

“A Lamborghini, ma’am,” Alfred decides to chime in and his mother lets out one of the loudest gasps Bruce has ever heard from her, or anyone, for that matter.

“Bruce!” she scolds, and, out of the corner of his eye, Bruce notices that Alfred is fighting hard to suppress his laughter. There’s no trust here, Bruce thinks. He’s just been ratted out by his own butler in front of his parents.

“He did,” Thomas adds as he elaborates generously to his nearly traumatized wife, “A few of Theo Galavan’s men were kind enough to deliver us our car back last night while our son drove his _Lamborghini_ to _his_ party at _his_ club, which of course, Martha, we paid for that too.”

“Dear God,” Martha mumbles, shaking her head to herself, "Money doesn't grow on trees, Bruce.”

“Meet me in the study after breakfast,” Thomas barks his order before retreating from the kitchen doorway. His father's furious, and rightfully so, though Bruce is confident that his father will understand once he explains everything.

Alfred pats him comfortingly on his back and Bruce glances up appreciatively, his prior betrayal apparently forgiven. His mother, on the other hand, shakes her head disapprovingly and resumes to filling up her remaining glasses with orange juice.

Once breakfast ends, Bruce heads to his father's office. He walks up to the door, sighs and knocks three times, entering the room when he hears his father call out.

Thomas Wayne is seated behind a desk occupied mostly by stacks after stacks of folders and papers. Bruce stops a few feet away, waiting patiently as his father thoroughly dissects the contents of the document in his hands. Out of curiosity, Bruce tries to peek at the papers and stops short when his father notices him.

“Interested?” he asks, a small smile forming on his face, “You know, I was at your age when my father taught me about running WayneCorp. Then, came WayneTech. And now that I'm running this enterprise, there’s not a single day that goes by where I get to read something else other than all of these plain old documents and boring proposals. Sometimes, I just want to run out to that open field and lay there for a few hours with a drink in my hand, you know?” Thomas can’t help himself but chuckles at the ludicrous thought and a relieved laugh escapes from Bruce’s throat. Maybe he isn’t in _that_ much trouble.

“Don’t think for a second that you’re not still in trouble, young man.” Bruce's smile falters and Thomas watches him, amused yet concerned at the same time.

“I get it,” he nods at his son, “I was young once. I understand recklessness as much as the next guy, but to buy a club and a Lamborghini within the same month? That’s not just recklessness, Bruce, that’s foolishness and it’s a dangerous thing to carry into your adulthood.”

“Dad, please hear me out," Bruce steps forward, "There's a reason for what I'm trying to accomplish. We needed to get closer to Theo Galavan and I did what I could do to pave a way."

" _We_?" Thomas sits up, startled, “Young man, what in God's name are you talking about?”

"I overheard your conversation with Detective Gordon. We can’t allow for Wayne Enterprises to liaise with the likes of Galavan.”

His father sighs in frustration. “Bruce, what did you do?”

“I bought a club,” Bruce states and his father looks up at him, stupefied, “He's been using proxies to distribute drugs through them all over Gotham, and I have information that one of his goons distributed something through mine during the party. I’ve also discovered that Galavan would kill to gain control over Diamond District. So, my club, being in the heart of the district, would be the perfect location for Detective Gordon to-”

“Whatever it is that you’re doing, stop,” Thomas orders, fuming with anger, hands already balled up into fists, “Stop right now. Sell the club. Forget everything you heard between Gordon and I, and walk away.”

"No," Bruce stands his ground, "He’s dangerous. He's manipulative and he's plotting something. I need to find out what it is.”

“Bruce, this isn’t a game.”

“I know-”

“THEN, STAY OUT OF IT!” Thomas Wayne slams his fists onto his desk, ignoring the rattling stationery and papers falling to the ground. “This is not your responsibility! You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into and you’re going to get others hurt, if not yourself first!”

“I care for Wayne Enterprises as much as you do,” Bruce insists, barely raising his voice to avoid being disrespectful to the man who’s trying his best to shield him from harm, “And I care for this city, Dad. I won’t let it fall into the wrong hands."

Thomas slams his fist onto the desk again. He’s furious, and rightfully so. Bruce stays silent for the next few minutes, standing his ground and patiently waits for his father’s anger to subside. Bruce understands the worry that his father feels for him, and the fear of what Galavan would do if he discovers Bruce’s motives to destroy him and his empire. A few heavy breaths later, Thomas recollects himself and tiredly walks up to his son, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Bruce, I need you to promise me that you'll stay out of this," he barely whispers, "Let Detective Gordon handle this mess. He's a professional and he has all the help that he can get at the GCPD."

Despite wanting to fight back, Bruce stops himself.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” Thomas almost pleads and Bruce sighs in defeat. There’s no point butting heads anymore. At the end of the day, actions speak louder than words and Bruce intends to carry out his plan, one he’s concocted since one of his informants told him about a certain redhead distributing cocaine in his club during the party.

Bruce reminds himself to contact Selina later that afternoon.

He hopes his plan works.

~~~~

Sunday morning inevitably rolls in and Jeremiah has yet to receive his phone call, so he makes sure to check in with Jerome once every few hours and it’s absolutely driving his twin insane. Well, more so than his current state of mind.

“Has he called?”

“Nope.”

“Okay…”

One hour later.

“Did he call?”

“Nah,” Jerome replies absentmindedly, the majority of his focus poured into trying to beat that one level in Candy Crush.

One hour and twenty seconds later.

“Are you sure that he hasn't called? Like at all?” Jeremiah asks again that morning, sliding his bedroom door open and peeking his head through. His brother is sitting on the couch, holding up a plate of three pancakes doused with an absurd amount of maple syrup.

“YES, now quit asking!” Jerome shouts back as he ups the volume of the television, “I’m trying to watch Hell’s Kitchen!”

Sunday evening inevitably rolls in and Jerome is ready to massacre the entire city. Jeremiah could see the murderous intent in his eyes, and it darkens even more whenever Jeremiah raises the same question for the umpteenth time of the day.

“It’s weird,” Jeremiah stabs distractedly at his steak during dinner, “He should’ve called by now.”

“Have you considered that maybe he’s just busy?” Jerome cuts at his steak as if he’s ripping apart a head from its body and aggressively shoves the piece of meat into his mouth. He chews it aggressively too.

“What could he possibly be doing?” Jeremiah huffs, jabbing at the broccoli with his fork, playing with the food on his plate rather than eating it.

“Think, Miah. What would a rich brat do?” Jerome winces at the untouched food on his brother’s plate, “Hey, eat up. I didn’t cook that steak for you to poke at it.”

“I’m not in the mood to eat, Jerome.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Jerome narrows his eyes at him and reaches over the table to scoop up Jeremiah’s plate, setting it beside his. “It’s your loss.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Yeah, it fucking is,” Jerome takes another bite of the meat, “This steak is fucking delicious and you’re not even trying it.”

“Jerome, are you sure that he hasn’t called? Maybe it’s from an unknown number and you didn’t pick up.”

Jerome exhales through his nose, chewing the meat even more aggressively. “For the last time, Miah. No one has fucking called my fucking number since Friday, al-fucking-right? And the ones who did call are sure as fucking hell _not_ unknown in my list, got it?”

_‘Baby Shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo…’_

Jerome’s ringtone suddenly plays and Jeremiah almost jumps out of his seat, straining his neck and back to peer over the table, peeking at the vibrating phone.

“Fuck me,” Jerome mutters under his breath.

“What? Who is it?”

“An unknown number,” Jerome tells him.

“Well then, pick it up!” Jeremiah rushes him, more than eager to find out if it’s Bruce Wayne.

Jerome makes an annoyed face and proceeds to rudely answer the call. “Who the fuck is this?” he says and almost bursts out laughing when he sees Jeremiah’s face contorting immediately with shock and horror. “Yeah, he’s here,” Jerome grins and tosses his phone at his brother.

Jeremiah catches it with suave and experience and quickly brings it up against his ear. "Hello?" He tries to sound normal.

"Jeremiah?"

Dear God, it _is_ him. Something suddenly cuts his airflow and Jeremiah struggles to breathe. "Bruce?"

"Jerome?" The other twin chimes in, rolling his eyes as he takes another bite from his steak.

Jeremiah ignores him. "What can I do for you?" he asks, fingers nervously fidgeting with the table's edge. "So formal," Jerome teases and he turns away from his brother.

"Well, I'd like to apologize for calling at this hour," Bruce says, "I hope I'm not bothering you at dinner."

"No, you don't have to apologize, Bruce," Jeremiah quickly replies, "I haven't had dinner." Jerome's jaw drops and he gestures to Jeremiah at his plate of untouched _dinner_.

"Oh, I see," Bruce pauses, "Well, I'm going to cut this short anyway, seeing that you'll be having dinner soon. There's a Sip & Paint event happening at the Poison Ivy  Cafe and I've got two extra seats. I was wondering if you and your brother would be interested in joining."

"Yes," he answers a little too eagerly, "Yes, we're interested."

"That's great," Bruce says, "So, I'll see you there at 8 pm tomorrow?"

"Yes, we'll see you there," Jeremiah smiles and Jerome tilts his head in confusion, "Thank you for inviting us, Bruce."

"You're most welcome, Jeremiah."

"You're smiling," Jerome states as his brother ends the call, passing the device back to him. Jeremiah casually shrugs, his smile still plastered on his face as he reaches over to retrieve his dinner from Jerome's side of the table.

"Bruce has invited us to a Sip & Paint at the Poison Ivy Cafe and we're meeting him tomorrow at eight," Jeremiah announces happily as he cuts at his steak, bringing up a rather large piece of it into his mouth. He’s _starving_.

Jerome blinks as he processes the information, lightly tapping a fork at his now empty plate. "Sip & Paint… You mean those things where rich folks drink wine while they, well, paint?"

"Yes," Jeremiah nods as he takes a sip from his water, "Make sure to wear a more appropriate apparel for tomorrow, Jay. The usual ones make you look like you're running a drug cartel."

"But I do run a drug cartel,” Jerome states the obvious.

“You know what I mean,” Jeremiah says as he adjusts his glasses out of habit.

“Miah, I’m not going,” Jerome says and his smile falters. Jeremiah watches as his brother fiddles quietly with his fork, as if deep in thought. Jerome expertly twirls the fork around his fingers and Jeremiah recognizes the familiar swirling pattern, having paid attention whenever he sees Jerome practising with his knives.

It's rare to see Jerome in this state of deep thought. Something’s obviously bothering him and Jeremiah has a strange feeling that it somehow has to do with Jerome’s work.

“Jay, Bruce specifically asked for the both of us, and I promised that we’d go.”.

“Something’s not right, Miah,” his brother shakes his head, still fiddling with his fork, “It doesn’t feel right…”

“Look, I don’t know what’s bothering you,” Jeremiah sets his cutlery on the sides of his plate, hoping to get his brother’s attention, “And if it has something to do with your work, I’m not expecting you to tell me about it either. Nonetheless, I can assure you that this is nothing more than a casual event.”

Jerome scoffs and chuckles to himself. “Brother, I might have stolen something from at least half of the rich folks who’re gonna be in this casual event, and I’m telling ya, it’s not gonna be pretty when one of those bastards recognize me.”

Jeremiah stills. “Oh my God, Jerome, have you done _something_ in Gotham City that’s not detrimental to your name?”

His brother laughs. “Sorry, Miah, but I’ll pass,” Jerome’s usual mischievousness in his eyes returns and he playfully catapults his fork onto Jeremiah's on the other end of the table. “You go on without me,” he grins, “Say, Ecco seems like the type to go for this sipping and painting nonsense. You should ask her.”

“Maybe I will,” Jeremiah shrugs and tosses his brother’s fork back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> I hope you like this one as well. Let me know in the comments about your thoughts on the chapter!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

If there's a warning that the body sends to signify an incoming nervous breakdown, Jeremiah didn't get one. 

It's Monday. 6 pm.

There's a knock on his door and he hears Jerome shout from the outside. "Dinner's ready!"

Jeremiah doesn't answer. Instead, his eyes are glued to the sight of his opened closet. He's done for. Picking an outfit, for Jeremiah, has never been more difficult, more challenging, more stressful, more… everything... than it is now. He hates to admit it, but Jerome's right. He  _ does _ have zero style.

Jeremiah browses through the clothes in his collection, painstakingly taking note that every piece of his clothing looks somewhat identical. Though Bruce has only met him once, dear God, he can't allow himself to show up wearing the same style again. Not tonight, anyways. He’s never been one to fuss over his own garments and appearance, but it's different now that he has a night out with Bruce Wayne.

His vision starts to swirl and Jeremiah removes his glasses, fingers massaging circles into his temple to soothe his growing anxiousness. It doesn't work.

He picks up his phone and promptly dials for assistance.

"Ecco? I need your help."

It's ludicrous. Preposterous! Absolutely absurd! There's no need to change himself to impress Bruce.  _ But what's wrong with putting in a little effort? _ No, Jeremiah tells himself, Bruce will like him for who he is. He knows it.

Amidst his internal struggle, or scuffle, Jeremiah's eyes falls upon the sight of his reflection in the mirror.

What if it's not enough? What if  _ he's _ not enough? Then again, Jeremiah thinks, maybe if he does alter a bit of himself, for the better, Bruce might like him more. Yes, that might work. Might.

Ecco arrives twenty excruciatingly torturous minutes later. He's close to hyperventilating when he hears her knock and Jeremiah rushes towards the door.

"What's up, boss?" A wave of relief washes over his entire being when he finds Ecco outside, hanging her handbag over a shoulder and chewing at her usual brand of bubblegum.

Despite knowing Ecco for only three short years, two weeks after Jeremiah had first arrived at Gotham State University, she'd been his most trusted friend and partner in crime. Well, 'partner in crime' being a figure of speech. Jerome wouldn't mind taking it literally, though. It took Jeremiah four and a half days to advise Jerome against scouting Ecco for his illegal activities, and for Jerome to realize  that he’s very protective over his new friend. In a way, Ecco  _ is _ Jeremiah's rock and he won't allow for any harm to befall upon his one true friend.

"Please come in," Jeremiah pleads, his head feeling as though it's about to implode within the next second.

"Hey!" Jerome suddenly yells from the couch, taking an apparent break from whatever he's watching on television. "You crazy kids better keep that door open! I don't want any accidents in this house!"

"We're not doing anything!" Jeremiah yells back and slams the door shut, faintly hearing a giggle from Ecco.

"I thought that's why you called," Ecco flips her hair flirtatiously and Jeremiah's brain is too occupied to register it as a flirtation.

"No," he answers rather monotonously, eyes still glued to the sight of his closet, "Ecco, what should I wear?"

All of a sudden, she bursts out laughing, as if Jeremiah's question is the funniest thing she's heard today, and then she stops herself. "Wait, you didn't really call me here because you couldn't pick an outfit, did ya?"

"Actually, I really did," he sighs, "I'm hopeless."

She lets out a gasp. "Oh, that’s interesting," she moves forward towards his clothes put on display, "What's so special about tonight, Jeremiah? Are we going on a date?"

"Ecco, I told you that we're going-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she flips her hair again as she goes through his collection of dress shirts and blazers and ties, trying to choose an appropriate outfit for this seemingly special occasion, "But what's the big deal about this sip and paint thing that made ya wanna dress up for it? And ya know, I know I haven't seen you in a normal shirt before, boss, but I assumed that you'd actually own one."

"It's in the other compartment," Jeremiah points at the side of his closet and Ecco opens it without hesitating, "But I'm not planning to wear one for tonight."

She side-eyes him, slightly annoyed. "Of course not," Ecco mumbles to herself, pushing the compartment door away to close it. "Hey, it's pretty chilly these couple of nights. How about a nice sweater, huh? I think you'll look good in a sweater."

_ He would? _ Jeremiah entertains that thought as he scratches at the back of his head. "Um, I don't think I own one," he drawls, opening up one of his compartments and checks.

"Well then, I guess we'll have to move on."

"Wait," Jeremiah stops her suddenly, "Do you really think that I'll look good in a sweater?"

"Are you kidding me?" Ecco scoffs, "I think you'll look hot."

And that's all she has to say. Jeremiah hurries pass his friend, walks out of his bedroom and marches towards Jerome whose eyes are still glued to the TV screen.

"I need to borrow a sweater," he demands as suddenly as he appears, causing the startled twin to jump in his seat, arms flailing over the purple couch.

"Don't do that!" Jerome hisses, belligerently tossing a pillow in protest.

Jeremiah swiftly catches the pillow and tosses it back to him. "Jerome, please, can I borrow a sweater?"

"The fuck do you need my sweater for?"

"Please."

He huffs as he flings the pillow away. "Fine! Wait here."

A short while later, his brother returns with a white cashmere sweater, one that Jeremiah doesn't even know he owns. "It's the nicest one I got," Jerome says as he casually tosses the piece of clothing at Jeremiah before plopping back down onto the couch.

Eyes fixated on the beautiful sweater, Ecco, one of Gotham State's brightest fashion student, snatches it from Jeremiah's hands. "Where'd you get this?" she asks in awe and Jeremiah watches with amusement as she runs her fingers across the cashmere.

"Can't recall," Jerome chuckles lightly. 

"I honestly doubt that," he tells Ecco, recognizing that Jerome is overtly lying and his twin snickers. Obviously too distracted by the piece of clothing to realize that Jerome had most probably stolen it from someone, Ecco excitedly pushes the sweater into Jeremiah's arms and ushers him to try it on. 

 

~~~~

 

Bruce Wayne looks up from his watch, eyebrows slightly furrowed as he takes a sip from his glass of wine. It's 7:45 pm and the Valeska twins are nowhere to be seen. The Poison Ivy Cafe may be located in an unnecessarily secluded spot at The Hill near Otisburg, but it's not that hidden to the extent where visitors can't find their own way to the chalet. Bruce brings up his half-empty glass of Château Lafite again and takes another sip. He may or may not be stress-drinking. 

"And there's Edward Nygma," Selina casually makes conversation with her long-time friend and cafe owner, Ivy Pepper, about her arriving guests of the evening, "I'm surprised he's not with here with Cobblepot."

"They do seem to be quite inseparable, don't they?" Ivy says, eyes absently peering over the growing crowd as more guests enter the chalet. She notices then that Bruce is barely paying attention to their conversation and nudges Selina with her elbow. "Someone seems to be a little distracted," she says as Bruce continues watching the windows and door. He doesn't hear Selina call out to him until she punches him on the arm and Bruce flinches at the sudden assault.

"Bruce, you're being very obvious right now," she whispers to his ear and Bruce snaps out of it, nodding acknowledgingly. He's been distracted throughout the entire evening, plotting ways to extract as much information as he possibly can from the Valeskas without them noticing and wondering if colluding with Selina to carry out his scheme is truly the only way to gain clues to find out what Galavan's planning.

Bruce flashes a smile at his friends. "Forgive me," he says to Ivy, "I was just waiting for some friends to arrive."

"Redhead incoming," Selina suddenly says and Bruce instantly turns towards the entrance. The familiar sound of the bell hovering above the entrance rings as the door opens and in walks Jeremiah Valeska, with a date. 

Bruce stills as he takes in the sight of the other man. It’s the first time that he sees Jeremiah Valeska in a brightly lit setting, and he’s breathtaking. The string of lights hanging above the entrance brings out the red in Jeremiah Valeska's hair and Bruce realized that he hadn’t noticed how prominent the color is when he first saw him in the club. Not that he could see much in  _ any _ club anyways.

Jeremiah Valeska notices Bruce on the other side of the room and waves with a friendly smile. Then, Bruce watches with a strange sinking feeling in his stomach when he sees Jeremiah place a gentle hand behind his date’s back, attentively guiding her through the crowd towards Bruce and his friends.

Jeremiah, on the other hand, may look calm and collected on the outside, but on the inside, his stomach and guts are doing backflips and somersaults as he makes his way through the crowd. One step after another, they bring him closer to Bruce Wayne. It's nerve-wracking yet exhilarating at the same time. He swallows anxiously. 

After an eternity of walking, Jeremiah finds himself standing merely three feet away from Bruce Wayne and both of them, coincidentally, clear their throats at the same time. Which is odd, at least to Jeremiah.

"It's nice to see you again,” Bruce extends his hand and Jeremiah's stomach does another flip.

"It's nice to see you again, uh, too." He tells himself to hold it together as the familiar warmth from Bruce's hand spreads across his. Bruce smiles at him and Jeremiah's heart could literally melt on the spot if it was possible.

"I was worried that you couldn't find the place," he says, "Ivy did well finding a spot as secluded as this."

"I don't like people," Ivy tells him jokingly and Jeremiah laughs a little, accepting her handshake with grace.

"Well, you and I have something in common," he replies politely as his eyes dart back to Bruce, "I'm embarrassed to admit that we were lost for a minute but, luckily, we got here in time because Ecco's sense of direction is better than mine."

"Should've turned left when I told ya," Ecco laughs, hands grabbing playfully at his bicep, dragging Jeremiah's attention away from the young billionaire and Bruce, for some odd reason, feels hollow at the loss of eye contact.

Jeremiah grins at her. "I'm sorry, alright? The roads are so confusing here."

"Well, I guess everyone's arrived by now," Ivy retrieves a small metal straw and clinks it against her raised glass of wine. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen, let's move along to the next room. The evening is about to start."

As the owner of the chalet leads her guests towards the dining area, which had now been converted to a painting area, Bruce couldn't help himself from eavesdropping at Ecco's excited chatter with Jeremiah Valeska. He doesn't turn around to see how Jeremiah's reacting to her, Bruce refuses to, but he could guess that he's probably smitten. He's somehow beginning to regret offering Jeremiah an extra seat to the event, if he knew that he'd be bringing a date instead of his brother in the first place.

At the thought of Jerome Valeska, Bruce immediately snaps out of his apparent jealousy and trance, and cusses at himself. What the hell is he doing? He's here to work, Bruce angrily reminds himself. This is strictly  **not** a simple social event. He turns to Selina, signalling for her to keep Ecco occupied for the evening.

Selina Kyle spins around, arms reaching out to the girl and wrapping one around her shoulders. "Hey, Ecco, wanna sit together? I, for one, think it's due for some girl time and  we'll let the boys talk about soccer and superheroes and all things boring."

"But I kinda like superheroes," Ecco says, cautious eyes darting to Jeremiah at Selina's sudden friendliness. Bruce turns around, instantly noticing the uncertainty in the girl's eyes and attempts to lighten the mood, in case the Valeska twin suspects anything.

"Selina, I think you're scaring her with your over-friendliness," he laughs, "Besides, I think Jeremiah wouldn't be too happy about being separated."

"It's alright, I don't mind." Jeremiah might have said it a little too quickly and a mild sting of regret pricks at his heart. It's as if he didn't hesitate, not even one bit, to push Ecco away for somebody else. Jeremiah turns to Ecco and offers an apologetic smile. He doesn't want her to be offended by his bluntness, but it's Bruce. He's not just anybody else.

"We'll pick a seat by the window," Selina utters to her excitedly, and Ecco throws a few concerned glances at Jeremiah as she's being forcefully whisked away by her new 'friend'.

"I'm sorry about Selina," Bruce tells him, "She usually does what she wants."

"I understand," Jeremiah nods shyly, forcing himself to look around the room to avoid initiating any awkwardness between them. "W-where should we sit?"

"Where would you prefer, Jeremiah?"

"Um… anywhere's fine."

Bruce looks around the room as well, finding two spots by the window and two easels away from Selina and Jeremiah's date. "I think I found just the spot," Bruce gestures for him to follow as he makes his way to the right side of the room.

Jeremiah keeps his head down, nervously fidgeting and pulling at his fingers as he trails behind Bruce. He carefully maneuvers through the settling crowd and neatly arranged easels as he walks across the mahogany floor. Unlike the building's lobby, where its white walls are contrasted by a light oakwood flooring, the dining area is renovated with mahogany that spans across the floors and walls of the room. 

High rectangular windows are strategically built to allow in as much sunlight as possible during the day. At night, on the contrary, guests are exposed to the beautiful scenery surrounding the secluded chalet. Jeremiah takes in the view of the woods outside and the stunning dark sky littered with nothing but glimmering stars. He glances around the room. Ivy’s chalet does offer a rather romantic atmosphere.

Bruce sits by the easel closest to the window and Jeremiah settles quietly by his own, mildly confused at the design of his ‘workstation’. The idea of painting has never crossed Jeremiah's mind in his twenty-two years of life, nor has it ever interested him in school. Jerome, however, would, he thinks. His brother has always been the artistic/creative type. Then again, he could be too, despite not having explored that particular side of him. Jeremiah spots five distinct brushes of different sizes arranged on a small round table beside his wooden easel.

"Have you done this before?"

He hears Bruce ask and Jeremiah shakes his head, a small smile forming as the sides of his lips quirk upwards.

"No, I've never had an interest in painting," Jeremiah replies sheepishly, "Have you?"

"Actually, no," Bruce flashes him a smile that's too adorable for his own good and Jeremiah's breathing literally halts to a stop. It takes him literally two full literal seconds to recuperate. Literally. Bringing up the glass of Château with his mildly shaking hand, Jeremiah gulps down a rather large portion and wonders how he's supposed to survive the rest of his evening with this boy. Oblivious to Jeremiah's evident discomposure, Bruce casually carries on with the conversation. 

"I've never painted before in my entire life," he says, “Truth is Selina dragged me along because she wanted to see what Ivy’s put together for the evening.”

Jeremiah swallows another gulp of his wine before carefully setting his glass on the table. "So, does it mean that you dragged me along because you'd rather not suffer alone, Bruce?" He asks with a hint of sarcasm, hoping to ease his own nerves with the attempted humor. His throat is feeling awfully dry right now.

To his surprise, Bruce laughs and Jeremiah's stomach does another backflip, and he instinctively reaches for his glass of wine again.

“Maybe,” Bruce smirks. Again.

Jeremiah’s starting to regret letting Selina Kyle steal his friend away. If only Ecco had remained by his side, he wouldn't have turned into such a vulnerable mess right now.

“Are you okay?” Bruce asks with genuine concern in his voice, "You don’t have to chug it all at once. We haven't even started painting yet."

Jeremiah exhales through his nose as a burning sensation courses through his throat and palate. "I’m okay,” he says to Bruce and himself, because he truly needs the reassurance right now. He especially appreciates it when Bruce waves for one of Ivy’s loitering waiters to refill his now empty glass. 

The rest of the evening carries on without a hitch. As the lesson commences, Jeremiah notices, from the corner of his eye, how Bruce adorably perks up, paying full attention to their instructor as she explains the importance of artistic expression through painting. With time, he gathers enough courage to look at the boy sitting beside him, and Bruce smiles sheepishly as he struggles with his brushes whilst applying some blue acrylic paint onto his blank canvas. Jeremiah couldn’t take his eyes off the boy. There he was, sitting by a window overlooking towards the woods of Gotham City and a night sky that’s littered with a thousand stars. It would make for a beautiful painting, if Jeremiah could paint. If only Bruce realizes how beautiful he looks at this very moment...

The boy catches a glimpse of Jeremiah staring at him and does a double take, arching his eyebrows with amusement as he tells him, “You know that you’re supposed to be looking in front of you, right?” 

“Oh,” Jeremiah lets out a nervous laugh and picks up one of the brushes arranged neatly on his round table, “We’re sitting too far away. I can‘t see anything.”

“Jeremiah, you’re wearing glasses.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but he seems to be at a loss for words. So, Jeremiah simply smiles as he sits up to peer at their instructor’s work in progress. It seems simple enough to replicate. Jeremiah presses the tip of his brush into some blue acrylic paint and runs it across his white canvas.

"If you don't mind me asking, Jeremiah,” he hears Bruce say, “Why didn’t your brother come?”

Eyes never once leaving the instructor, Jeremiah dabs a second brush into a blotch of white paint as he tries to come up with a most plausible lie. "Unfortunately, Jerome’s feeling unwell tonight,” he falsifies, “Bad case of stomach flu.”

“I see,” Bruce inches closer to his own easel as he attempts to paint a row of tiny dandelions along the bottom of his canvas, “Please send my regards to Jerome, and be sure to tell him that he's really missing out not coming to this  _ amazing  _ event. This really is the most exhilarating thing I've ever done. So much fun."

Jeremiah grins from ear to ear at his sarcasm. "I'll make sure that I do,” he throws the boy an amused glance and Bruce snorts.

Two hours have never flown by so fleetingly. Before Jeremiah knows it, his painting is complete and the class is coming to an end. The young engineer tilts his head at his attempted replica of their instructor’s masterpiece. It’s not too bad, he supposes.

"Well, mine looks like crap," Bruce announces suddenly and Jeremiah shakes his head.

"Trust me, it's not as bad as mine," Jeremiah retorts almost playfully, taking a sip from his Château.

Bruce leans towards him to peek at his artwork, shrugging as he does it. "You did alright. Better than mine, in fact,” the boy seems surprised, to say the least, “Are you sure you’ve never painted before?”

“One hundred percent,” Jeremiah reassures him, “I suppose that every artist needs a blank canvas to discover if they truly possess the potential to become one.”

“Well said,” Bruce nods, taking another sip from his glass, “but I hope mine doesn’t see the light of day because it looks disastrous.”

"Don't be mean to your painting, you'll hurt its feelings." It’s almost side-splitting for Jeremiah to see Bruce choking on his drink, eyes widening comically at the apparent hilarity of his own words. “Are you okay, Bruce?” The boy waves dismissively at him, eyes watering as he tries to hold back his coughs. Jeremiah knows that he shouldn’t find the look on Bruce’s face beautiful, but he does. 

“Is that you or the alcohol talking?” Bruce manages to ask, wheezing just a bit.

"I think I can handle alcohol much better than you'd expect," Jeremiah says and he downs the remaining wine in his glass, locking eyes with the boy as he does it. The alcohol does seem to be helping with his nerves and Jeremiah’s feeling much more relaxed than before.

"After seeing your brother, I doubt it.”

"Well, considering the amount that he'd consumed the other night, you can't exactly compare me to that hopeless fiasco."

"You have a point," Bruce nods, smirking as he finishes his own glass of wine.

"Well, well, look who it is." 

A feminine voice throws Jeremiah off guard and he spins his head around to find a familiar face, one that’s been gracing the newspapers all over Gotham City.

"Ms. Kean," Bruce greets cheerfully as he stands, "I didn't expect to see you here. This is Jeremiah, a friend of mine." 

Jeremiah freezes in place as he feels Bruce’s palm brushing over his shoulder to rest on top of it. It seems that their friendship may have progressed more than he’d expected. Judging by Bruce’s actions, he seems comfortable enough to be on touching terms, and Jeremiah wonders just how much touching would Bruce actually allow him to get away with.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Barbara waves gracefully, “Are you his date for tonight?”

_ Date??? _

His jaw drops to the ground and Jeremiah awkwardly gapes at the question, being embarrassingly abashed. More than anything in the world, he’d like to say yes, but that’s not going to happen. Thankfully, Bruce swoops in to save the day, but Jeremiah’s shoulder feels a little cold when Bruce lets his hand fall away.

“No, his date is over there with Selina,” the boy laughs and Jeremiah turns to him, utterly confused. Who could Bruce be possibly talking about? Wait, Ecco?

A tall man wearing glasses approaches their circle, standing by Barbara Kean and raises a glass at Bruce. "You do realize that fraternizing with the son of your business partner isn't going to sweeten that deal, right?”

"Whoever said that was my intention?" Barbara retorts, gesturing at her friend as she introduces him to the group, “Boys, Edward Nygma. Edward Nygma, boys.”

The man catches sight of his cashmere sweater and Jeremiah instantly detects an inkling of sadness in his eyes. Barbara Kean seems to notice as well and decides the address the standing issue. “Edward here was just telling me about your lovely cashmere,” she says, “And how it resembled the one he lost a few weeks ago.”

Jeremiah’s blood instantaneously runs cold.  _ Shit _ .

“It’s a shame, really,” Edward stares longingly at the obviously stolen sweater that he’s wearing, “I really loved that sweater…”

_ Damn it, Jerome. _

"Of course he does," Barbara sympathetically explains, "It’s a gift from Oswald."

At this point, Jeremiah’s light-headedness could be caused by two factors; an unlikely case of alcohol poisoning or his urge to swing at Jerome for letting him wear the stolen valuable to this event. It’s the latter. The sadness in Edward Nygma’s eyes makes him wish that he could return the sweater right here and now, but anyone with a quarter of a brain would know that it’d be the most idiotic thing anyone could do. It’ll be far too suspicious now to return the sweater, especially after Edward Nygma has mentioned it to Jeremiah. He decides on the spot to leave it be.

“I’m sorry that it got stolen,” Jeremiah says sympathetically. Well, he  _ is _ sorry.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Edward shakes his head, “He did say he’s getting me another one soon. It’s fine…”

To Jeremiah’s relief, their conversation comes to an end when Barbara and Edward excuse themselves from the circle to meet up with another fellow businessman in the chalet. Bruce turns to him, offering a warm smile as he awkwardly clears his throat. “I guess you’ll be heading home soon, considering that you probably have class tomorrow.”

“Actually, I have a presentation tomorrow,” Jeremiah says, “I’ll be showcasing a generator that I’ve built…”

“Oh, cool…”

Jeremiah’s palms are sweating now. It’s not as if he’s even asking the boy out on a date, but it sure feels like it. “W-would you like to come?” he asks, shyly extending the invitation to Bruce.

There’s a pause before he hears Bruce say, “I’d love to.”

It sounds fairly like a promise to Jeremiah, and the Valeska twin breathes a sigh of relief.

 

~~~~

 

The drive back to Wayne Manor is awfully quiet, but Bruce is too deep in thought to notice. He doesn’t even notice when Selina leans over to switch the radio on, and she giggles a little too gleefully when Bruce jumps in his seat. 

“Jesus, you scared me,” Bruce inhales.

“That’s rare,” Selina laughs, "So, I got nothing from the girl, other than she goes to Gotham State for fashion and design, and that she's only known Jerome Valeska through Jeremiah Valeska. Seems to be head over heels for this Jeremiah guy though. Did you get anything?"

"Nothing much," he says distractedly, "But it's still too early to know anything, right? If I start asking about Galavan now, our cover’s blown.”

“Right…”

“I’ll be attending his presentation tomorrow,” he briefs, “And I’ll be going alone. So, I’ll need your help to figure out what Jerome’s been up to this evening.”

“Gotcha, what else?”

“We need to keep tabs on Ecco too, in case anything comes up.”

“Do you need a background check?”

“Not necessarily,” Bruce says.

“So, what, you just want me to follow her around? That’s a bit redundant.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“No, what you mean is that you want me to check up on this girl to know how close she is to Jeremiah Valeska.”

Bruce tenses at her deduction. That wasn’t what he meant, of course, but he’s not sure if he’s been unknowingly implying that.

"I saw the way you looked at the guy,” Selina sighs, “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

"Selina, I-”

“And don’t deny it,” she cuts him off, “I’ll do whatever you want me to do, but Bruce, I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into. Like you said, what we’re doing isn’t safe. People can get hurt.”

“Selina, I’m not-”

"Just don’t get too distracted,” she adds, “And keep your feelings in check.” 

Bruce sighs.

Stomping on the accelerator, he tightly grips onto the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white as the car speeds across the bridge. He’s not going to screw this up. Bruce won’t allow it. Despite his persistence, his utter commitment and his belief that he’s been thinking clearly throughout the evening spent with Jeremiah Valeska, Bruce couldn’t help but feel that he’s gotten slightly side-tracked while carrying out his plan.

He grits his teeth. 

Bruce knows he hasn’t been thinking clearly, despite wanting so badly to believe it. He’d been so helplessly distracted by Jeremiah’s presence that he’d failed to extract any spec of useful information that would help in taking down Galavan. He can only hope that tomorrow will be different, and that Bruce himself could stay level-headed enough the next time he interacts with Jeremiah Valeska.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, how’s this chapter? Let me know in the comments below and I’ll check in again next week, hopefully with a new chapter. There will be some smut, and considering that I’ve never written any, I’m going to start... researching... soon. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

_Jeremiah hears a deafening moan as he slams the boy against the window in the chalet. Reaching for his neck, he wraps his fingers around it and violently pins Bruce against the glass. The loud thud that sounds when his head collides with the window echoes across an empty dining room. As he helplessly yelps in pain at the impact, Jeremiah silences him with the crash of his lips against the younger’s, teeth clashing harshly during their beautifully brutal kiss._

_“Jeremiah, stop.”_

_He pays no mind to Bruce’s pleading, forcefully shoving his tongue into the boy's mouth through parted lips and squeezing at his neck with enough force to cut his airflow. Twirling his tongue into the younger's mouth, Jeremiah relishes the immense warmth and wetness as he coats his tongue with Bruce's saliva, hungrily deepening the kiss as he does._

_Bruce’s fingers clutch tightly onto his sweater, creasing the luxurious fabric. With every rough probe of Jeremiah's tongue into the boy's mouth, he could feel the growth of Bruce's desperation to escape. He starts pushing, thrashing and even scratching at Jeremiah, but to no avail._

_As punishment for his defiance, Jeremiah bites down hard enough to draw blood, digging his fingers into the boy's wrists to pin them against his own back._

_“Bruce, I need you,” Jeremiah pants heavily into his bleeding punctured lips, “I want you.”_

_“You’re hurting me."_

_He cuts him off by crashing their lips back together. Jeremiah will hear nothing else if it's not Bruce’s erotic pining moans or the sweet sound of him calling out Jeremiah's name with a burning desperation and filthy lust. He grabs a nearby rope, swinging it around the boy’s wrists to tie his hands together._

_Jeremiah cups his face with both hands, twirling his tongue once again along the boy’s palate towards his teeth, drinking in the hot wetness of Bruce’s mouth, and moaning at the damp pressure of Bruce's tongue as it tries to force him out. Pulling away, Jeremiah allows him a small taste of victory this time while snaking an arm around his waist to pull him impossibly closer._

_“Give yourself to me, Bruce," he whispers hotly into his ear, eyes now dark with lust and want, "Let me fuck you. Let me rip you apart."_

_“Get off of me.”_

_Jeremiah forces himself onto the boy, trapping him against the window overlooking towards the woods of Gotham City and a night sky that’s littered with a thousand stars. It would make for a beautiful painting, if Jeremiah could paint. If only Bruce realizes how beautiful he looks at this very moment..._

_“Jeremiah, let me go, please.”_

_Jeremiah bares his teeth sinisterly as he grins. “Never,” he whispers once more, fingers pulling down Bruce’s high collar to reveal skin before sinking his teeth into his neck. The boy instinctively lurches at the pain. His body rubs involuntarily against Jeremiah’s and it takes only a second for the older to further lose control, pleasuring himself by shamelessly grinding against the boy’s crotch._

_A surprised moan escapes from Bruce’s throat when Jeremiah licks an upward stripe along his ear, whispering filthy fucking words that make his cock twitch. Jeremiah chuckles lowly as he runs his fingers through the boy’s hair, giving it a rough tug and savoring the lovely sound of Bruce’s lascivious groans. He’s ready now._

_Jeremiah tosses his glasses onto the round table by the easel._

_Wasting no more time, he bites down hard into Bruce’s neck and rips the vulnerable skin underneath his teeth. A mark that he leaves to claim Bruce as his own. The taste of iron swirls about Jeremiah’s tongue as he seals his lips over the wound, enjoying every distressed grunt and moan that he could rip out of the boy._

_“Jeremiah…”_

_“You’re so good, Bruce.”_

_Jeremiah retracts from his neck to initiate an open-mouth kiss, smearing crimson all over his lips, teeth and tongue. “Jeremiah, please.” The sweet sound of Bruce's begging is now more than enough to send him over the edge. The redhead mercilessly grabs the younger by his waist, desperately chasing his own release as he roughly grinds against him, hearing the boy’s back slam against the window over and over again._

_“Oh, Bruce…”_

_“Bruce…”_

_“B-Bruce.”_

 

…………

 

Jeremiah jolts awake from his sleep.

Covered in cold sweat, he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, heart pounding furiously against his rib cage. Through uncontrollable panting, he struggles to breathe. Jeremiah forces himself to count to ten, trembling fingers twisting painfully into the bedsheets.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four...

As his breathing stabilizes, his awareness returning, Jeremiah notices a tightness in his boxers and the memory of his dream, including even the most trivial detail, surges through his brain like electricity. It’s enough to trigger another panic attack. Jeremiah’s reminded of the lingering touch of the boy’s lips against his own, the immense power he'd felt as he committed all of those monstrosities, and the tortured look on Bruce’s face when he assaults the boy in the abandoned chalet.

Jeremiah leaps out of bed.

He stumbles into his shower, turning on the water in full blast. As dampness seeps into his clothes, he wishes for the powerful surge of freezing water to flush his sins away, along with his deep-rooted sickness and the repulsive lust that accompanies it. He roughly washes at his face, digging fingers into his skull out of pure frustration, desperate for forgiveness, desperate for repentance, desperate to forget. But he can’t.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Jeremiah violently slams his fists against the tiled wall. Despite everything that's he done to this day, he's still a monster, no different from his brother, or his mother. Jeremiah thought he could’ve been different, could’ve strived to be a better man, but he couldn't.

He will never be.

He locks himself in his room for the rest of the morning.

 

~~~~

 

The clock tower at Gotham State University strikes two when visitors arrive at the campus’ largest auditorium, occupying hundreds of its velvet cushioned seats within the enormous enclosure. Reporters from all over the city and the outstationed actively flash their cameras at the monumental invention erected in the middle of the stage. A number of clean energy industry experts chatter excitedly amongst themselves, admiring Jeremiah’s self-perpetuating generator from afar and off-stage.

Bruce Wayne arrives precisely on time for the young engineer's presentation. Maneuvering through the crowd gathering near the stage in search for an empty seat, Bruce finds himself being drawn towards the awe-inspiring generator instead. Jeremiah had told him that he had built it, part by part, one scrap metal after another, with his own hands. An indisputably amazing feat. He imagines Jeremiah tinkering away at the disassembled generator night after night, pouring all of his effort and passion into creating what the world truly needs for a sustainable future.

“Hey, rich boy!”

Bruce turns around on his heels at the familiar sound of Jeremiah’s voice, except that it isn’t. The difference is even more evident when Bruce realizes just how close the redhead is standing, as if the concept of personal space, to him, is non-existent. Jerome Valeska greets him like an old friend and Bruce ironically plays along, allowing the twin to put his hands on his shoulders.

As expected, something about _this_ Valeska ticks him off and puts Bruce on guard. Much like Galavan, Jerome is wearing a mask meticulously fabricated to present a friendly facade, a social tactic useful to influence others and win friends. It's something that Jeremiah doesn't do, or at least, it's one thing that Bruce have yet to catch him doing. To say that the twins differ vastly from one another is an understatement. Between Jerome's charming self-assuring mannerisms and Jeremiah's timid apprehensive nature, Bruce finds the pair to be strangely intriguing.

“How’ve you been?” Jerome grins, “The last time we met, well, frankly, I don’t remember anything, but I’ve heard wonderful things from my brother.”

Bruce smiles quickly. “You _were_ pretty drunk.”

“Indeed I was,” he chuckles, “Come sit with us. We’re taking the top deck ‘cos they don’t allow snacks down below. It’s like they wanna starve us to death or somethin’.”

Bruce shrugs knowingly. “Maybe it’s because everyone just had lunch and refreshments will probably be served later.”

“Probably ain’t a good enough guarantee, kiddo,” Jerome says, landing a friendly slap on his back, “Come on, the show’s about to start.”

Jerome Valeska leads him to the back of the auditorium where Bruce settles in the middle of the last occupied row of twelve seats. He faintly hears Jerome discussing about the weather with someone and, oh... it's Jeremiah's date from the sip and paint. Of course Ecco would be here, Bruce tells himself. Why wouldn't she? Quietly, he keeps to himself as the two chatter animatedly among themselves.

Setting his eyes towards the stage, the view from atop is actually astonishing. It's a full house in the auditorium and he could only imagine how elated Jeremiah would be to see his enormous audience when he steps on stage.

"Pretty sweet view, huh?" Jerome says proudly, nudging at his arm and casually shoving an unzipped bag into Bruce’s arms, "Take whatever you want but hands off the Doritos if you wanna keep 'em."

The younger gawks at the bags of unhealthy junk food smuggled into the auditorium, murmuring with disbelief, “You weren’t kidding when you said you brought snacks."

“Nope,” Jerome flashes him a cheeky grin.

“A very good afternoon to all of you..." Bruce perks up at the voice booming from a nearby speaker.

"That's his lecturer," Jerome tells him excitedly, "The guy loves Miah."

Miah?

For a swift moment, unbeknownst to Bruce, his guard falls and he can't help but smile at the given nickname, because it honestly sounds kind of adorable. Kind of.

"Now that everyone has settled down,” the lecturer announces, “let us proudly welcome our astounding inventor of today and of our future, Gotham State University’s brightest engineer and my favorite student, Jeremiah Valeska.”

A familiar figure emerges from backstage and Bruce applauds with the audience as Jeremiah steps out into the spotlight, a small smile appearing on his face as he politely nods at the shockingly massive crowd. The wave of flashing camera lights does nothing in easing the young engineer’s nerves. Instead, he fidgets with his fingers, a natural response to overt stress and a fairly effective coping mechanism against his arising anxiety. At a certain point, he locks eyes with Bruce Wayne and it almost all comes crashing down. He’s reminded of the unforgettable tainted with a deep-seated shame within his core, and as Bruce flashes him a beaming smile, Jeremiah simply turns away to look somewhere else.

Bruce’s smile falters.

Jeremiah _did_ see him. Bruce is sure of it.

Maybe they’re just seated too far away, the boy reassures himself.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Jeremiah begins, “Thank you very much for being here today. I… Today, I would like to introduce to you an invention that means the world to me, and hopefully, in the near future, it would mean the world to you as well.”

An unmistakably distinctive crunch of a Dorito sounds from Jerome’s mouth and a few visitors in his proximity naturally turn their heads to identify its source. "The fuck you looking at?" Jerome challenges one of them as he pops another Dorito into his mouth. Bruce watches him, slightly bewildered but mostly abashed. Jerome _really_ is the absolute opposite of his brother, Jeremiah.

“This self-perpetuating generator is a compact electrical engine. The first of its kind," Jeremiah calmly paces around his invention, "It generates power, and just two could light up every building south of Westward Bridge. Allow me to demonstrate."

Jeremiah retrieves a phone from his pocket.

"I have an assistant outside who will temporarily shut down this auditorium's power grid for the demonstration, so please, do not panic." His audience laughs as he brings the phone to his ear, "John, if you would so kindly."

The auditorium soon fills with darkness, illuminated only by an array of flashing cameras lights. Bruce hears another crunch of a Dorito when the air conditioning shuts down as well. He holds his breath in anticipation.

Then, a faint rumbling sounds from center stage as the generator gradually emits a distinctive blue light as it powers up. Merely three seconds later, one after another, the fluorescent lights begin to reilluminate the auditorium, accompanied with a soft reviving hum of the air conditioning, and the audience erupts into a gratifying applause, cheering for Jeremiah’s success.

Jerome cheers the loudest, at least within his vicinity. He startles Bruce with a falling bag of Doritos when he stands abruptly, obviously too enthusiastic for his brother to be bothered, and Bruce swiftly catches the bag before it hits the ground.

Holding back brewing emotions, Jeremiah clasps his hands together as he carries on with the presentation. “Ambient energy. No cables or wires of any kind,” he says, “It's clean and stable. Harvested from micro tremors and air density shifts, it’s virtually without costs.”

Jeremiah could do great things for Gotham. Bruce sees this and he believes it. With this perspicacious contribution to the clean energy industry, the city could be the first in the country to run completely on self-perpetuating generators. Gotham will flourish.

Perhaps Wayne Enterprises could use someone like Jeremiah and his brilliance… but no, Bruce can't allow for that to realize, not with Jeremiah's involvement with Theo Galavan.

But is there proof? Is there concrete evidence that shows Jeremiah Valeska's direct involvement with the illegal dealings? At this point, it's only speculation, but Bruce can't afford to give him the benefit of the doubt. It'd be reckless.

Despite all that, his conscious tells him that Jeremiah is in fact innocent. The engineer doesn't resemble someone who'd participate in Galavan's plans, considering what he's achieving today serves only the objective of ameliorating the city. Perhaps, Bruce ought to stick around for a bit longer to figure out Jeremiah's play in this, to either prove his innocence or his corruption. Only time will tell.

"He's good, isn't he?" Jerome asks suddenly, his voice barely a whisper.

Bruce nods his agreement. "Yes, he is."

"Makes you wonder if Wayne Enterprises could use a genius like him, huh?"

Ecco sighs. "Jerome, you can help your brother find a job after. He's in the middle of his presentation."

"It's never too early to book a job, doll face."

It's as though Jerome read his mind when he brings up the suggestion of employing Jeremiah under Wayne Enterprises. "I could talk to my father," Bruce lies, "We'll see what he can do." It's difficult and far too early to determine if the good that derives from going through with the lie outweighs the bad, but Bruce does consider it.

"Swell," Jerome appreciatively nudges him on his shoulder and unexpectedly throws him a wink as well.

Bruce gulps at a strange fluttering sensation swooshing in his abdomen. He knows very well that he's conversing with Jeremiah's twin brother, but it's as if he's seeing Jeremiah winking at him instead. Obviously, Jeremiah wouldn't do _that_ , though Bruce sort of wishes that he would.

The presentation ends thirty minutes later with another roaring applause. Jeremiah couldn't have been more proud of himself. It truly is a scientific breakthrough. It's _his_ scientific breakthrough. Holding himself up with immense pride, Jeremiah smiles triumphantly as he's swarmed by dozens of reporters, each with questions of their own, each with a desire to know more about his generator. Today marks the beginning of Jeremiah's life, one that he's always dreamed of leading.

For the first time in forever, Jeremiah is comfortable in being at the center of attention. He feels loved. He feels admired. Respected. He's never been happier in life than he is now at this very moment.

For the first time today, Jeremiah looks for Bruce Wayne. Pushing aside the unforgettable, Jeremiah wants Bruce to see him at his very best, to share his tremendous joy and to live in this blissful moment together. Their eyes lock, and Jeremiah's shoulders slump with content and pure adoration. Bruce is cheering and applauding with, just as he'd hoped for, tremendous joy in his eyes. He couldn't have wished for anything more. It is at this exact moment, at this very second, that Jeremiah falls in love.

Amidst all of that cheering and being absolutely oblivious to Jeremiah's current state of mind (or heart), Jerome notices an aggravating vibration in his pocket. Begrudgingly retrieving his cursed phone, Jerome cusses under his breath and stealthily makes his way out of the auditorium to answer the call, only to return a short moment later to bid them goodbye. Bruce watches curiously as Jerome whispers something into his friend’s ear. He then reaches over to tap Bruce on the shoulder before leaving for good. "Nice seein’ ya, kid,” Jerome had simply said.

Bruce watches him disappear through the nearby door. Well, that just happened. "Where's he going?" Bruce directs the question at Ecco and she shrugs, seeming to be as clueless as he is. He promptly messages Selina, letting her know that Jerome is leaving the auditorium. She replies a few seconds later to tell him that she’s on it.

It takes two tiresome hours for Jeremiah to answer every question on the floor. Soon, the remaining reporters leave for the day, which means the only people left in the enclosed room are Bruce, Ecco, his assistant and Jeremiah himself. Now that the euphoria has passed, Jeremiah’s nerves are resurfacing twice fold as Bruce approaches the stage. The young engineer spins around on his heels, busying himself by pretending to perform a post-presentation evaluation of his own creation. He runs a palm along the hood of the generator, inspecting the metal with an excessive degree of forced concentration.

“Hey!” Ecco calls out to him.

Before Jeremiah could react, her slim arms snake their way around his neck, pulling him impossibly close before planting a chaste kiss on both of his cheeks. Needless to say, Bruce watches their exchange from afar with an unmistakable spark of envy in his sinking heart.

“Congrats, Jeremiah,” Ecco giggles, prompting the young engineer to step back, awkwardly yet expeditiously detaching her arms from his neck. Frankly, they feel a little too constricting for Jeremiah. He tugs at his blazer shyly as he clears his throat.

"Um… Ecco, could you excuse us?” He adds quietly, glancing at the other boy’s direction, “I need to speak to Bruce for a moment."

Still as cheerful as ever, Ecco flashes a beaming smile and skips pass him towards his assistant, diverting her attention to the unsuspecting friend instead. “How ya doin', John Doe?" Jeremiah glances at their direction to find Ecco relentlessly tapping on John's shoulder and the guy responds by playfully swiping her annoying appendages away.

Bruce clears his throat this time, snapping Jeremiah’s attention back to the boy. "Congratulations, Jeremiah," he quickly extends a hand, "You did great. Your self-perpetuating generator is extremely fascinating, to say the least."

"Thank you," Jeremiah nods stiffly as he accepts the handshake, forcing himself to make eye contact like any normal person would. He manages it for one and a half seconds before the remnants of his dream slowly writhe its way back into his mind, tempting him with the imagery of how _good_ they’d look together, how Jeremiah could have that intimacy with Bruce if he’d just _take_ it. "And thanks again for coming, Bruce," he coughs, mentally wishing for the obscene imagery to leave him be, "It means a lot."

"You're welcome," Bruce says, seemingly at a loss for words, plagued also by an internal struggle of his own. Ecco and Jeremiah's unexpected display of affection have completely thrown him off guard, rendering him slightly aggravated and more than a little confused at himself.

"Um… did Jerome say anything before he left?"

"No, he didn't…"

"I see," Jeremiah lowers his gaze unto his shoes, silently cursing at the bothersome thoughts clawing their way around his brain. It renders him dysfunctional, and even more so in Bruce's presence. Irritated, he looks for a way out of this unpleasantry.  "Look, I'm sorry, Bruce," Jeremiah exhales tiredly, "I'm a little busy today, could we talk some other time?"

"Sure," Bruce nods slowly, realizing now that it's possible to simultaneously feel relieved and awful at the same singular point in time. "I guess I'll see you around," he mumbles as he turns around to leave, back hunched over slightly with discontent. Jeremiah must’ve sensed that he’s upset too because he calls out to Bruce at the very next second, tone riddled with guilt.

"Wait," Jeremiah exclaims and Bruce stops dead in his tracks. The young engineer rushes to step in front of him, opening his mouth as if to say something, but nothing forms.

"Bruce, I… I'm…"

"Jeremiah, what are you trying to say?"

The taller sighs dramatically, stepping a little too close into Bruce's personal space and the boy's breath hitches. "I'm sorry for acting this way," Jeremiah blurts out, adamant to make him understand, "Bruce, I apologize. I'm not being cold, or anything close to that. There are just a few minor insignificant annoyances that require my attention and I… I just need time, Bruce."

"What's bothering you?"

"I… Like I said, it's not important." Jeremiah bites at his lower lip, realizing all of a sudden that there's actually a less than appropriate distance separating the two of them. His eyes inevitably fall onto the boy's lips and Jeremiah tenses at the alluring view. His brain estimates that he's eleven inches away from kissing Bruce Wayne. Ten and a half now...

Nine?

If his brain’s measurement is indeed accurate, then there are approximately eight and a half inches of distance that separates their lips before Ecco's obnoxious laugh echoes through the auditorium and Jeremiah hastily steps back. Drawing in a few breaths, he quietly mutters his apology to Bruce, adjusting his glasses out of habit, and of utter embarrassment.

 _Like, what the hell was he thinking?_ The day is obviously going very well at this point. And why does his face feel like it's boiling?

Bruce blinks at him. Well, that… really just happened. He watches with curiosity as the color red spreads across the engineer's face all the way up to his ears, and Bruce can't help but bites back a laugh.

Jeremiah inadvertently tugs at his collar. Between questioning his own sanity for his bold advance of trying to kiss Bruce and his stupidity for allowing it to happen, Jeremiah still manages to accumulate enough brain capacity to deduce that the air conditioning must have been shut down, because he's heating up and the room is hot as hell.

All of a sudden, Bruce snorts out loud with laughter, causing extreme confusion to ripple away at the other. "Bruce, why are you laughing?" Jeremiah asks.

Waving dismissively at him, Bruce battles his fits of laughter, shaking his head repeatedly at Jeremiah's apparent hilarity.

"What?" Jeremiah questions amusedly, a smile of his own forming as he patiently waits for Bruce's answer.

"We need to get you a mirror," Bruce keeps his voice low, hoping to save him from further embarrassment, though it may already be too late for that. "Your ears are red," he whispers and, without warning, Jeremiah's hands shoot upwards, instantly cupping his ears away from view.

"Jeremiah! No, please, you look fine."

"You're lying," Jeremiah replies monotonously, "That's a lie."

"I'm serious, you look fine!"

"Forgive me, but I find the smirk on your face to be contradictory to what you're verbally implying."

Bruce's smirk grows wider and Jeremiah narrows his eyes at him. The Wayne boy could stay in the auditorium forever if it means he could spend his eternity with Jeremiah in this particular moment of bliss, but just like everything else in reality, impermanence is inevitable. Glancing at his watch, Bruce frowns.

"I'm sorry, I should get going," he says, "I need to be back for dinner."

"I understand," Jeremiah nods thoughtfully, hands slowly falling away from his reddened ears.

"Hey, can I borrow your phone?" Bruce asks suddenly.

Without raising any questions, Jeremiah quickly retrieves his phone, handing it over to the boy, all in a matter of seconds. Upon the realization that Bruce is saving his own cellular number in his contacts list, Jeremiah beams at him. The boy eventually returns his phone and Jeremiah takes proper care _not_ to brush fingers with Bruce, despite wanting to. A lot.

"I'll see you next time," Bruce says before walking off towards the ascending steps leading to the exit.

"See you soon," Jeremiah calls out as he watches Bruce leave the auditorium, "I-I'll message you."

And it takes one full second for Jeremiah to realize that the proper term he ought to be using is 'I'll text you'.

 

~~~~

 

At seven o' clock, Jeremiah returns home to an empty apartment. Jerome had texted earlier that he'll be buying dinner for tonight to celebrate Jeremiah's immense success. So, the twin takes a brisk shower, changing into his sweatpants and a shirt, and plops down in front of the television to kill time.

He hasn't stopped thinking about Bruce. Browsing through randoms channels, nothing interests him more than his recollection of their previous conversation. Jeremiah smiles at the memory of the tremendous joy in Bruce's eyes as he cheers for him, how Bruce found hilarity in Jeremiah's blushing and how genuinely happy Bruce looks during their little talk before he leaves for the day.

Out of impulse, Jeremiah grabs his phone, opening the messaging application, and searches for Bruce's name. He doesn't know what to write, per say, but Jeremiah writes the first thing that comes to his mind that he wants to say to Bruce at this particular moment.

JEREMIAH: **Hello.**

He sends the text and then sets his phone by his lap.

The day has definitely taken a surprising turn. What started off as a dreadful morning - one that almost succeeded in reversing all of Jeremiah's efforts to become a better version of himself - has transformed into something beautiful.

His phone beeps at the receipt of a new text message and Jeremiah almost snatches the device from the couch to read it.

BRUCE: **Hello. Are you celebrating?**

JEREMIAH: **If you count watching TV as a celebration, then yes. There doesn't seem to be any interesting shows at the moment though. What are you doing?**

It’s taken him all morning to convince his brain that his dream is… well, just a dream. Jeremiah recalls the moment Jerome had found him hiding in his bedroom. There was an incessant amount of knocking on his door before his brother broke into his room with a spare key. Jerome had looked extremely worried. Understandably, he thought Jeremiah had relapsed and, quoting Jerome's very own words, it scared the living shit out of him.

BRUCE: **Reading and catching up with class. Pretty exciting.**

JEREMIAH: **But your classes just started. I don't understand.**

Once found, Jeremiah spent the next hour wrapped around comfortingly in Jerome's arms. It's times like these when he wonders if putting off medication was the right choice for his condition. Granted, his therapist had advised him against doing so, but the antidepressants weren't making him feel better. Instead, they make Jeremiah feel nothing at all. The components in his prescription works to numb his senses enough to basically cause emotional blunting.

Jerome hated it, obviously. It was painful for him to watch his own brother live life without the ability to experience normal emotions.

For three years, Jeremiah was merely an empty shell of a person, until he decided one day that enough was enough.

BRUCE: **By catching up, I meant getting ahead. I won't have enough time in the next week, considering that it's the end of the month. I'll be too busy looking at the club's finances.**

JEREMIAH: **I thought you bought the club because security wouldn't let you in. Never knew you were serious about running it as a business.**

BRUCE: **O.o … Does everyone think that??**

JEREMIAH: **Pretty much the entire of Gotham City, yes. Maybe even Metropolis.**

BRUCE: **Wow. Good to know.**

Jeremiah hears his brother's rattling keys outside the apartment door and quickly replies Bruce's text.

JEREMIAH: **I have to go.** **Text you tomorrow. Good night, Bruce.**

"Sorry for being late, broski," Jerome calls out as he enters the apartment, walking over to the kitchen counter with a grocery bag in hand, "And sorry for leaving early. Job."

BRUCE: **Good night, Jeremiah.**

Resting his phone on the couch, Jeremiah doesn't suppress the smile that spreads across his face as he makes his way to the kitchen. "All forgiven, Jay," he says. Jerome scoffs outwardly as he sets two gourmet cheeseburgers onto white plates. "Yeah, well..." he shrugs, "To prove that I truly _am_ sorry, I got you something."

Curiosity gets the better of him and Jeremiah perks up. "What is it?" he asks cautiously. Jerome simply replies with a playful wriggle of his eyebrows before retreating to the backpack he'd left on the floor.

"It'd better not be a jack-in-the-box," Jeremiah eyes him suspiciously.

"Now, why would I give you that?" Jerome rolls his eyes, then proceeds to unzip his bag to reveal the surprise gift, "Behold, a boring old laptop!"

Jeremiah gawks speechlessly at the white rectangular box still wrapped in plastic. It's the latest portable computer and, according to paper, the most advanced of its kind in the market right now with a price tag that exceeds three thousand dollars.

"Jerome!" He yells as Jerome tosses the expensive piece of hardware across the kitchen and Jeremiah successfully catches it with both hands. "Stop throwing things around!"

"Whatever," Jerome chuckles to himself, "So, you like it?"

"I do." Jeremiah inspects the box with awe, running his fingers across the intricate gold-printed wording on said box. "Jerome, I love it. Thank you."

"Yeah, ya better love it," Jerome says as he disgustingly shoves a handful of french fries into his mouth, "This thing costs me three and a half grand."

"Wait, you paid for this?"

"The fuck is that supposed to mean? Of course, I paid for it! How did you think I got that thing?"

Jeremiah raises his eyebrows at him. "Well, you've never been one to shun away from stealing."

"Rubbish and poppycock," Jerome sneers at him with a badly faked British accent and Jeremiah laughs.

"So, it's true then," Jeremiah deduces as he sits comfortably on his dining chair, "You stole this."

"Well, duh," Jerome cackles, "It's three and a half grand."

Jeremiah scoffs in disbelief, though amusement still resides in his eyes. Carefully setting the box on the dining table, Jeremiah picks up his burger, bringing it to his mouth. "Thank you for the gift, Jerome. I really appreciate it."

"You deserve it," Jerome grins, "By the way, what do you say we go on a little road trip, huh? This saturday?"

"A road trip?" Jeremiah asks, "Where to?"

"I don't know," he shrugs, "Somewhere with a killer scenery and fresh air?"

"Well, yes, but do you have a place in mind?"

"Yes," Jerome flashes him a cheshire smile and Jeremiah shakes his head. His twin is up to something. Again.

"Why so sudden?" Jeremiah asks.

"What do ya mean?"

"I think you know what I mean, Jerome. Why bring up the subject of going for a road trip now? Is it for a job?"

"Give me a break, Miah," Jerome drawls, "Can't I just spend some quality time with my own brother for once?"

Jeremiah sighs, straightening his back as he sets the burger down onto the white plate. "Jay, if it's because of this morning-"

"It's not," Jerome cuts him off, taking a surprisingly large bit out of his cheeseburger as he eats.

"I'll be fine," Jeremiah says reassuringly, "If necessary, I'll take a few days off campus to recuperate. Nothing will happen to me, Jerome."

With that, Jeremiah receives no response. His brother simply stares at his plate in silence as he chews.

"You don't have to worry about me, Jay."

Jerome sighs this time. "That's where you're wrong, broski. It's my responsibility to worry."

"I don't want you to," Jeremiah says, "I don't need you to."

"You don't know what it's like from an outsider's point of view, Miah," his brother seethes through gritted teeth, "For three years, I thought I'd lost you. It's like I was living in this apartment alone with a stranger who just looked like you. You never talked. You barely ate. Hell, you wouldn't even look at me. When I found you this morning, I saw the same empty look on your face and it really scared the living shit out of me. I wasn't joking about that."

It's Jeremiah's turn to sit in silence. He remembers everything that happened in those three years, but hearing it today from his brother's perspective hurts him even more than reliving his own memories.

"I just thought that the road trip could do us some good," Jerome says, "Get yer mind off things, ya know."

"I'm sorry for putting you through all of that, Jay. You didn't deserve it."

"Bullshit," Jerome scoffs, "You're my jackass of a brother, alright? It's my curse to be stuck with ya."

"You don't have to," Jeremiah says, as if he's offering Jerome a way out of his mess. An escape that he so rightfully deserves.

"Shut up and eat yer food," Jerome retorts, "I'm not heating it up for ya if it gets cold."

Jeremiah manages a small smile, picking up the burger with trembling fingers. Slowly, Jeremiah takes a careful bite. The nagging possibility of a relapse terrifies him to no end. He was miserable before, and he can't bear to go through it again. He won't allow for Jerome to either.

"Do remember to buy enough snacks for the road trip," Jeremiah suggests seemingly out of nowhere, "I have a feeling that you're going to inhale most of it before we even leave Gotham."

Jerome flashes him a grin.

A smile spreads across Jeremiah's face when he sees relief washing over his brother's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! So, just FYI, this is a Bruce-centric chapter with a little addition of the twins. Jeremiah and Jerome’s road trip starts in the next chapter. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this one via the comments section or leave a kudo! Thanks again for reading!
> 
> Have a great day :D

An expected familiar ringing of an alarm clock echoes through one of the dim corridors of Wayne Manor at eight in the morning, signifying to Alfred Pennyworth, whilst carrying out his daily errands of making sure that the manor is intact, that the young master has just awoken from his slumber. That and also the fact that there's no need to report to Mrs. Wayne of her son's absence, should he be missing like the last time. And the time before that. 

The faithful butler makes his way across the corridor, leaving the young master to get on with his daily routine.

Bruce Wayne tosses around in bed, stretching his limbs for as far as he could possibly go. Feeling a bit dopey, the boy sleepily paws at his closed eyes, reaching blindly for the phone charging on his nightstand. His eyebrows furrow when he notices that there’s one unread message from… oh, Jeremiah. The side of his lips start to quirk into a smile as he taps to open the notification that was received over an hour ago.

JEREMIAH:  **Good morning. :)**

Butterflies flutter around the left side of his chest. 

It’s impossible for Bruce to suppress the delight that floods through his system, not when it’s caused by - and he’s quoting Selina Kyle’s exact words - the cute redhead in nerdy glasses and his ridiculous tie. 

He brings his fingers to work, typing his reply within an instant.

BRUCE:  **Good morning, Jeremiah. You're early.**

Bruce sets the fully charged device on the nightstand. Stretching for the last time, the youngest Wayne in the manor - and possibly the latest one to rise this morning - sits up from his bed, planting the soles of his feet onto the cold wooden floor and makes his way to the bathroom. The boy returns thirty minutes later with a damp towel resting around the back of his neck. 

He picks up the cellular device, noting that it’d taken Jeremiah only ten seconds to reply to his last message.

JEREMIAH:  **You too. Btw, will you be in campus today?**

BRUCE:  **No, I don’t have class today. Why?**

An interval of another ten seconds commences before a ping sounds from his device, indicating the receipt of a new notification from the other boy, and a little excitement sparks within Bruce.

JEREMIAH:  **It's nothing. I was just wondering if you'd like to have lunch together?**

BRUCE:  **I’ll need to check my schedule. Running a business and all makes me a pretty busy guy, you know?**

JEREMIAH:  **Oh… Alright then.**

The boy snorts with laughter, rapidly tapping away as he replies, unknowingly biting at his lower lip out of amusement.

BRUCE:  **Joking! HAHA how about next Monday?**

Swinging his bedroom door open, Bruce heads for his study where he'll be spending the day dissecting a pile of financial reports, an effort that he'll need to put in to understand the club’s previous earnings and expenditures. Just as he's about to get ready to work, another ping sounds as Bruce settles behind his desk by a large window frame. The morning sunlight shining in, illuminating the study.

JEREMIAH:  **Next Monday would be great! :D**

Awesome. Before Bruce could reply, a second ping catches him by surprise and he taps to open the new notification from Jeremiah.

JEREMIAH: **Where would you like to eat?**

BRUCE:  **How would you like to try the new burger joint outside campus? It's just a block away from the gate. Do you mind walking?**

JEREMIAH:  **Of course not! :D**

**It's a date th…**  Bruce freezes. 

A sudden hesitation washes over him before his fingers work to erase the incomplete text. It's too much, Bruce silently scolds himself. He's getting ahead of himself. Distracted, again. Though he'd meant for it to be a figure of speech, he  _ really _ does, Bruce can't let himself to send that message. Afraid that Jeremiah might take his words literally, Bruce opts for a more friendly reply instead.

BRUCE:  **I'll see you on Monday then!**

Bruce sinks tiredly into his chair. It'll be a normal lunch with a normal friend. That is all. He sighs. When Jeremiah had attempted to kiss him in the auditorium, Bruce was, admittedly, thrilled. He remembers melting internally as Jeremiah's lips draw closer to his, and Bruce swears that his knees would've buckled if their lips  _ did _ indeed touch right then and there, but it didn't happen, and Jeremiah had turned him away.

It's for the better, Bruce tells himself. Obviously, it's preferable to keep things professional, given that he  _ is _ on a mission after all. Bruce has a goal to achieve, an objective to complete, and Jeremiah is merely a person he clings onto to scour more information about Galavan's corruption. 

Selina's right. He does need to keep his feelings in check. Bruce can't allow himself to fall further for Jeremiah's charm, not when he has far more important matters to attend to. Taking down Theo Galavan should be the bigger picture at this moment. It must be.

But the boy can't help it. 

No matter what he does, Bruce can't avoid the little spark of joy that pokes at his heart whenever he sees him. Inevitably, no matter how hard he tries, the thought of Jeremiah would always distract him from the now.

Bruce sighs again.

For the next two hours, he busies himself with reports that pertain to his own business. One by one, he scans through every single detail to detect for any lingering discrepancies in the printed documents. Bruce had insisted on personally going through everything during the first three months of owning the business to ensure that he understands how things work in the club. However, despite still having plenty of reports on his hand to read through, Bruce occasionally multitasks and switches his attention to his phone, reading and replying to Jeremiah’s texts without fail. He tells himself that it's to keep up the important appearance of being a friend, and that his plan is more likely to succeed if he had Jeremiah's trust.

"Quite busy today, Master B?" 

Alfred appears by his side with a silver tray in hand, carrying a glass of freshly made orange juice and a small plate of cheese crackers.

"Yes, Alfred, quite busy," Bruce says absentmindedly as he types his reply.

Setting down the young master's breakfast, Alfred, out of pure curiosity, peers over the boy's head to peek at his phone. A sudden familiarity washes over him as he takes note of the name 'Jeremiah Valeska'. Now, Alfred recalls that he's heard that name some time ago… he just couldn't pinpoint when. Somehow, Bruce feels the older man's eyes upon him and quickly spins around, sheltering the device's screen immediately to prevent more of Alfred's unexpected intrusion of his privacy. 

" _ Alfred _ ," the boy drawls with complaint.

"Okay, alright," the butler says jokingly, raising both of his hands that indicate a sign of surrender, stepping back to resume his duties elsewhere. Jeremiah Valeska… how strange, Alfred thinks.

Thomas Wayne appears by the doorway of the study, knocking three times on the opened door and Alfred bows his head slightly as a greeting. "Good morning, Mr. Wayne," Alfred says as he takes his leave.

"Good morning, Alfred."

"Morning, Dad," Bruce greets, setting down his device onto the desk.

"You seem occupied," Thomas observes as he approaches his son, eyes scanning over the neatly arranged stack of documents in front of him.

"Not really," Bruce says as he pops a cracker into his mouth, "Actually, I'm just about done for the morning."

"Good," Thomas nods, "Your mother and I are heading to the city for some shopping. As we've been cordially invited to Oswald Cobblepot's dinner on Saturday night, your mother thought we could do well with some new clothes."

"Why do I get the feeling that Mom is just looking for a reason to shop again?" Bruce laughs, "I still have plenty that I haven't tried on."

"You know your mother," Thomas says lovingly, eyes crinkling as he smiles. 

"So, Cobblepot," Bruce sips from his orange juice, "He's celebrating this soon?"

His father simply shrugs. "The odds of his campaign  _ are _ on his side, as far as public news go. Galavan seems to be finding it difficult to catch up. At this point, it looks like he's bound to lose the race."

"That's great news!"

"It is," he laughs, "Now, get ready, son. We're leaving in ten minutes." 

As his father exits the room, Bruce works to gulp down his morning beverage before quickly devouring the crackers on his plate to leave for the day.  
  


~~~~  
  


Shopping with his mother has always been a fun activity. Very true, much loved. Nothing excites Bruce more than to follow her into multiple shops and stores where a number of them tend to sell the same products. It's never tiresome to Bruce for him to browse through the same range of clothes and garments for the umpteenth time of the day, providing his expert opinion on which product to buy and which product his mother ought not to buy.

It really is 'fun'. Just like painting.

The father and son share a knowing look as Martha Wayne enters into yet another retail store. She'll be looking at shoes for the third time today. Thomas Wayne shrugs in defeat as he holds open the glass door so his son could enter as well.

"Ooohhh, this one looks lovely," Martha coos at a pair of red stilettos while the father and son settles on a nearby cushion, waiting patiently as she calls for assistance to try them on. When it's finally time to leave, Bruce has never been more excited to meet the backseat of his father's car. 

"So, how's school?" Martha asks at one point during their drive around the city as they head home.

"Normal," Bruce answers absentmindedly as he, yet again, types away in reply to Jeremiah's text messages. They do seem never-ending, Bruce notices. It's as though Jeremiah is as reluctant as he is to, by any means, stop the conversation.

"Met any new friends?" Martha asks again, prompting a soft laugh from her husband.

"Look at what he's doing, Martha," he says, "I think he has plenty."

"Oh, are you messaging that nice girl you brought over for dinner last week?" Martha questions, playfully side-eyeing her husband as she smirks. Thomas simply shakes his head to himself, reciprocating with a smile of his own.

"No, Mom," Bruce calmly replies.

"Who else?"

"Guess," Bruce suggests, noticing his father arch an eyebrow at him through the rear mirror.

"Oh, is it Selina then?"

"Guess again," Bruce smiles cheekily as Martha turns around to look at him.

"Ohhh, okay, I'll guess, but first, questions. Have I met this girl before? How long have you known her? Oh, and is she from your class?"

Bruce grins wider as more questions spill from his mother's intention of interrogating him. Truth be told, he doesn't find it annoying at all. Instead, it always feels nice to be able to have any sort of conversation with her. The thoughtfulness that his mother has behind every word that she says teaches Bruce a lot about caring for another person. Additionally, the immense love that she has for Bruce is evident and incomparable to anything else. She would do anything for Bruce, and Bruce would do the same for her as well.

"I bet she loves cake. Am I right?" Martha playfully raises an eyebrow at Bruce and he laughs. Out of the corner of his eye, something flies downward at an incredibly deadly speed, slamming onto the middle of the street just a few feet away from their vehicle and Thomas Wayne stomps on the brakes like his life depends on it. Tires screech. The sudden halt sends Martha jerking to the side, slamming back against her seat as seatbelts hold her protectively in place.

Within a second after the vehicle screeches to a stop, Bruce is thrown forward towards the front seat, crashing his skull against the window as another car collides into theirs from behind.

"BRUCE!" 

"Oh my God, Bruce!" Martha screams as she struggles to detach her seatbelt amidst her panic. Thomas jumps out of the car in a hurry and rushes to the backseat. Prying the door open, his father drops to his knees without hesitation to check him for injuries. "Hold on, Bruce," Thomas reassures his son as he calls for an ambulance.

Bruce faintly hears more screaming as he spots another figure crashing onto the street with a repulsive splatter and thud. "I'm fine," the boy forces out through gritted teeth. Head still dizzy from the collision, he pushes himself from the seat, using the roof of the car as support as he climbs out of the vehicle.

"Bruce!" As frantic as ever, Martha rushes towards her son, holding him up as he weakly approaches the commotion unfolding in front of their eyes. "Don't move, you're bleeding," she chokes as she looks to her husband for help.

"Mom, I'm fine," Bruce says as he gently pushes his mother aside, squeezing her arm reassuringly as he steps forward, peering over to see what's going on.

What he finds shocks him to no end. 

Two bodies lay lifelessly in a pool of blood in the middle of the street. In a daze, Bruce can't make out the red writing on their white garments and he naturally takes a step forward.

"Look out!" A nearby pedestrian shouts suddenly as a third body falls from the sky, splattering head first onto the road. His mother screams in horror beside his ear, fingers clutching painfully at Bruce's shirt as she tries to pull him back. "Stay back, Mom," he tells her as he gently releases himself from his mother's grip to get a closer view. 

There are alphabets spray painted on each of the fallen bodies.

**M**

**A**

**N**

He hears his mother gasp in fear as a fourth body falls from above.

**I**

Bruce looks up, eyes squinting involuntarily at the brightness of the sky. He could make out a few figures looking down at the commotion from the rooftop. Enraged, he watches helplessly as one is pushed off. Falling at high speed and splattering onto the ground, the man's fingers only manage to twitch slightly before the deadly impact inevitably takes his life. Much like the rest, a band of silver duct tape is used to wrap around the victim's eyes and mouth.

**A**

"Call Detective Gordon," he shouts for his father, "Call him now!" 

Bruce takes off, running towards the alley of the building where he expects it to be their escape route. Thomas yells his son's name as he chases after him, grabbing the boy painfully by the arm, forcefully keeping him at bay. "Where are you going?!" he barks.

"They'll be coming down through the alley," Bruce blurts out, "We can get them there. Call Gordon, he needs to be here!"

Another body splatters onto the ground. This time, the man dies screaming and choking on his own blood.

"Bruce, stay put!" Thomas tightens the grip around the boy's arm, "We're not trained, and we're not armed. Leave this to the authorities, I'm sure Gordon's on his way."

"We can't risk waiting for the GCPD, they won't make it in time!"

"Then so be it!" Thomas seethes, "You can't stop them on your own, and I'll be damned if I let you!" 

Another body falls and Bruce has had enough. He shoves his father's arm away and sprints towards the alley. Bruce runs through the maze of high silver walls, fighting back the pounding migraine in his head. It gets too painful at a certain point and Bruce rests a palm against the wall, holding himself upright as he struggles to breathe. 

Out of nowhere, a chilling manic laugh echoes through the alley, and Bruce runs towards it in a flash. By the time he finds the perpetrators, however, it's already too late. The alley fills with an echo of screeching tires as a black van takes off in a hurry. Everything happens so quickly, and the only clue that Bruce had managed to gather is that the van has no registration plates. 

Out of exhaustion, the boy heaves and pants, collapsing onto the ground with his back against the building wall. He sinks to the floor as his legs give out. Who would do such a thing? Bruce wonders to himself as he stares at where the black van had parked. Why would anyone participate in such a mindless violence? He wipes away at the sweat trailing down his forehead, only to realize later that it's actually blood. His blood.

Thomas Wayne finds his son a few moments later and carries him to the waiting paramedics outside the alley. He's furious, and rightfully so. Bruce sits quietly as one of the paramedics clean his wound. The boy doesn't look anywhere else but at his shoes.

"You're unbelievable," Thomas seethes.

"I'm doing what's right," Bruce says stubbornly and his mother buries her face in her hands.

"The two of you, please stop," Martha pleads, "We can do this tomorrow in our home."

Bruce turns to the paramedic working to dress his wound. "Where's Detective Gordon?" he asks.

"He's probably looking at the bodies as we speak," she replies, and Bruce stands up abruptly. Thomas calls out to him as a warning, but the boy pays his father no heed. Instead, he makes his way towards the detective standing over seven fresh corpses lying in the middle of the street. 

Two police officers step in to block Bruce's path as he attempts to cross the yellow police tape set up to barricade the area. "Detective Gordon," the boy calls out, clearly paying no mind to the two uniformed bodies towering over him, "Can I have a word, please?"

Detective James Gordon glances over at his direction, hesitating slightly before excusing himself from his partner, an older man in a Borsalino hat. Stepping away from the corpses, the detective nods politely at the boy, who he recognizes right away as Thomas Wayne's only son.

"Bruce Wayne," he greets as he signals for the two police officers to step back, "How are you feeling?"

"Never better," Bruce says nonchalantly, "I have a lead on the people who did this. It's not much, but I hope it helps."

"A lead?"

"The perpetrators escaped in a black van, one that doesn't have a registration plate," Bruce says, "I'm not sure where they're headed, but-" The boy halts when, out of nowhere, a hand lands on his shoulder, moments before he hears his father speak. 

"Glad to see you here, Gordon," he says.

"Can't say the same for you, Mr. Wayne," Detective Gordon glances sympathetically at their dented vehicle, "I believe this is your car?"

"Indeed it is," Thomas nods, "A shame, really. I know it's too early to ask, but have you found anything about the people who did this? Or why they did it?"

"Bruce was just telling me about a black van that he saw, one without registration plates," Gordon says, "I believe that that's the best lead we've gotten so far. We still have to wait for Forensics to identify for fingerprints, if there are any."

"Glad to be of help," Thomas says on behalf of his son as Bruce peers over at the corpses. The alphabets, which were spray-painted onto the white garments covering each of the victims, forms an unfamiliar word. 

**M A N I A X !**

A name, perhaps. One that represents the lunatics who did this. Bruce studies the bodies from afar, fuming with rage, vowing to seek justice for the innocent men who've died for this disgusting act for attention. 

Bruce vaguely recalls the manic laughter he'd heard from the alley and it sends a chill down his spine.


	6. Chapter 6

If there's a point in Jeremiah's life where he'd actually consider murdering his twin brother, smothering him with the biggest pillow that he could get his hands on, it would be at this very moment on this very wretched Saturday morning.

"Wake up! WAKE UP!"

Jeremiah groans as his brother sadistically hurls a pillow at his face, at full force. He reckons it's a pillow, though it feels more like he's been attacked with a sack of bricks. The aggressive impact may have broken his nose, but Jeremiah couldn't care less to check. "What time is it?" he asks, burying his entire face into the softness of his pillow and turning his body away from the evil twin, lying flat on his stomach as he shelters himself from that annoying bastard.

"FIVE THIRTY!" Jerome shouts whilst, much to Jeremiah's dislike, channeling his inner drill sergeant, "Now, move your ass, Private! We don't have all day!"

"Stop yelling!"

"GET UP!"

"Why the fuck would you wake me at five fucking thirty when you said to set the alarm for eight??"

"That's because we're being spontaneous!" Jerome shouts again, relentlessly whacking the other twin with _the ultimate weapon, Mr. Pillow_ , and he chuckles fondly at the memory of that name. That's what he'd used to call it back then during their ongoing pillow fights. Then, somewhere along the way, Jeremiah had suggested for a new name, _Super_ _Plow_ , because what could've been more ridiculous than _Mr. Pillow_ , really.

It's one of the games that the twins used to frequently play. Jerome, being the respected founder of the game, had named it War of The Pillows. Catchy name, he thinks. Jeremiah, on the other hand, found - and finds - the name to be fairly excessive, though he'd rarely voice out his opinion regarding the issue. He'd just wanted to have some fun to make his life in the circus more… bearable.

The bittersweet memory, unfortunately, triggers something buried deep inside his core, and as his wall begins to crack, just ever so slightly, Jerome is overwhelmed with a sudden plunge of sadness and painstaking regret. They should've left when they had the chance. They should've saved themselves before… Jerome should've listened. He… it's all his fault. It's all him. Jerome did this. He did this to his own brother.

"Jerome, quit it!"

His brother's voice yanks him back to reality and Jerome immediately flashes a wide grin, praying that it seems genuine enough to _not_ raise any red flags, though Jeremiah doesn't seem to show him any signs of suspicion. Instead, he's clutching onto the pillow with all his might, trying to pry it away from Jerome's hands.

"You're such an asshole."

"Well then, move it, soldier!" Jerome barks as he releases his grip and sends Jeremiah stumbling backwards onto the bed. Within a second, his brother propels the pillow into his face, forcing Jerome to grunt at the impact because damn, that fucking hurts. And damn, he needed that.

The pain only makes him feel a teensy bit better, but not enough. It's never enough.

"Ow," Jerome cackles, feeling rather impressed with his brother's strength. He hurls the pillow once more, but this time, Jeremiah swipes it away with his hands. "Rise and fuckin' shine, sleepy head!" The annoying twin announces as he heads towards the door to take his leave, "The road trip begins!"

If Jeremiah is rolling his eyes to the back of his ridiculous head, Jerome can definitely feel it. Closing the door behind him, the Valeska twin pushes aside the dwelling sadness polluting his very being as he forces a smile upon his own lips. It doesn't matter if it's forced. After all, happiness, as a result, is his main priority today.

Jerome needs it, and Jeremiah deserves it.

 

~~~~

 

To say that Jerome is excited about the road trip is a complete understatement.

Jerome isn't just excited. Jeremiah can deal with him being excited. No, Jerome is… Jerome is _high_. That's the only reasonable explanation that he could come up with right now. He watches silently, and judgingly, as Jerome arranges three backpacks of food on the kitchen floor, filling up a fourth one with the remaining chocolates in the refrigerator. Not unbeknownst to Jerome of Jeremiah's judging stare, he grins.

"What?" Jerome asks, excitedly.

"Do you plan on emptying our entire kitchen for a weekend trip?"

"I know what you're thinkin', broski," Jerome chuckles, "But I'm tellin' you that you'll never know when we'll run out of snacks."

"Due to of your lack of self control."

" _Zero_ ," Jerome drawls in agreement, chuckling once more and dumping their last two chocolate bars into the bag before zipping it close.

"Right," Jeremiah says monotonously as he holds the front door open for the idiot, and a soon-to-be diabetic, of a brother. "You're loading all of that by yourself."

"On it!" Jerome responds cheerfully, strapping all four bags onto himself at once. The fool almost stumbles over his own feet when he exits the apartment and, truthfully, Jeremiah would've found it extremely amusing if he actually did.

Prior to leaving the city, the twins decide to stop at a gas station, one with an objective of filling up the tank for their impending journey up ahead and the other somehow finding the need to buy more food for the weekend.

"Seriously?" Jeremiah asks in disbelief as he watches his brother exit the store with two additional bags of Doritos in hand.

"I'm doing this for us," Jerome retorts stubbornly, tossing the bags into the passenger's seat.

Hitching the fuel pump back into place, Jeremiah shuts the fuel door before climbing back into the driver's seat. He glances over at Jerome who's reaching behind to retrieve an additional bottle of Pringles plus an extra packet of Twizzlers, and Jeremiah sighs. There are six large backpacks occupying the backseat, only two of which carry their own personal belongings for the trip.

"If we ever get stopped by the authorities, Jerome, they're going to assume that we smuggle junk food for a living," Jeremiah exasperates as he starts the engine, pulling out of the gas station and onto the road they go.

Jerome giggles gleefully. "Boy, that'd be fun! Imagine having a standoff with those bastards over a few bags of chips! Now, that's a headline."

Jeremiah rolls his eyes as his brother cackles at the possibility of it happening.

The impending journey ahead is a long one. Five hours of non-stop driving, to be precise. Jeremiah doesn't know what to expect out of it, considering that he's never spent this much time being alone with his brother, ever. Even as kids, Jerome was never home, venturing off to God knows where in the morning and only returning at dusk. Jeremiah would venture off too, though, in contrast, it's not for the sake of wanderlust. He would hide away with a book in hand at a quiet spot, one rarely found at home, away from all the noises and everything else.

Frankly, Jeremiah _wants_ to spend time with his brother. He's always wanted to, though an opportunity has never presented itself. After leaving the circus, Jerome found work, and funnily enough, that was after he was caught red-handed trying to mug Theo Galavan. Like Jeremiah said, he has an idiot for a brother. Yet, somehow his future employer saw something in Jerome that made him reconsider feeding the seventeen-year-old to his hungry pitbulls at home, and the rest is history.

Jerome would work all day and night, doing whatever he's ordered to around the city, coming home with fresh cuts and brand new bruises most of the time. Cleaning and dressing his wounds became a part of Jeremiah's job, one that he'd gladly do, considering that Jerome's enduring all of this for the sake of funding him through university.

In retrospect, Jeremiah _owes_ the world to his brother.

Though, for some reason, Jerome has been working less nowadays. "Awaiting further instructions from higher up," he'd said. Not that Jeremiah's complaining. It eases his worrying heart to know that his brother is slothing around at home, indulging in unhealthy eating habits as he slowly transforms into a literal couch potato. It provides him with relief to know that Jerome is not out in the city doing Theo Galavan's biddings and almost getting killed half the time.

For the weekend, Jerome had, under a pseudonym, booked a one-night stay at a resort located on top of a mountain. Yes, a _mountain_. Despite after twenty two years of being stuck together, Jerome still manages to come up with things that would surprise him. Initially, Jeremiah couldn't believe his ears, of course, because it's never struck him that his brother would prefer a quiet secluded getaway hidden in the woods over the wildly exciting nightlife experiences that a city could offer.

As the black Prius leaves Gotham city, the twins are embraced with a foreign view of the outskirts, where greenery stretches across the open plains on both sides of the road. Jeremiah browses through the available radio stations, only stopping when he hears Twist and Shout playing through his speakers. Jerome, on the other hand, disgustingly sucks at his fingers to taste the salty remnants of the previous fallen Doritos as he prepares to feast on the second bag resting on his lap.

"At the rate that you're eating, I wouldn't be surprised if you die from sodium intoxication before we get to the resort," Jeremiah states matter-of-factly.

"Live a little, broski," Jerome retorts dramatically, "We're going on vacation! That means I get a free pass on everything, and if I die from the oversaltiness of these delicious Doritos, then at least I'll die knowing that I've _lived_."

A laugh escapes from his throat as Jeremiah shifts his hands along the steering wheel, eyes still focused on the road ahead. "You know, if you were ever thinking of making a career change, you could try being an actor."

Jerome waves dismissively at the suggestion. "What, a showman like me? I'd rather be on stage making people laugh. Maybe I'll be a comedian, or maybe even put on a magic show! That'll knock the socks off those rich folks."

"I don't think you'll get to choose your audience that soon, Jerome."

"Haven't you heard? It's go big or go home, Miah! Plus, rich folks equal giant wallets. Soon, I'll be earning tens and thousands per show and we can finally get out of that shoebox of an apartment that we're livin' in."

"It's not that small."

"But it's not a mansion."

Jeremiah glances at him incredulously. "Why would you want to live in a mansion? It's so… big."

"That's the whole point, Captain Obvious."

"Well, you're not the one doing the cleaning, the mopping, or even the scrubbing, Jerome, and I doubt that you'd trust anybody else enough to clean the mansion for you.”

"Fret not, dear brother, 'cos you'll be paid _handsomely_ ," Jerome chuckles at the thought, "Maximum wage, insurance, dental-"

"I hope to God that you never get your mansion one day," Jeremiah says, drawing a loud gasp from the other redhead.

"Oh, you take that back," Jerome apprises warningly, "Take it back right now."

"No," Jeremiah smirks, "I won't be your maid, Jerome. Not any more than I already am now."

"Hey, I clean the dishes."

"Yeah, once every three days."

"And the bathrooms," Jerome quickly reminds him, "Don't forget that."

"Uh, singular. You only clean your _own_ bathroom."

"That's one less room for you to clean, right?"

Another laugh escapes from his throat, prompting Jeremiah to cast his brother an adoring look. To this day, Jerome is the only person in the world who's able to elicit a genuine laugh from Jeremiah's stoic self whenever he so pleases. Come to think of it, Jeremiah _could_ get used to this roadtrip business, for Jerome has proven himself to be quite an interesting companion for the long drive. He wonders why haven't they done this sooner.

"Whatever, Jerome," Jeremiah breathes out, eyes still focused on the road ahead.

"Yeah, whatever," his brother chuckles, "Come to think of it, even if I do get the mansion, you'll probably be too busy with your engineering stuff to manage it anyways. Have you heard anything about the generator? I mean, they loved you at the presentation."

"No, they love the things that my generator could do for them," Jeremiah says, "There's a difference."

"Well, any rich folks called you up, asking to buy one off you?"

"Several," he replies delightfully, "And not just from Gotham alone. Believe it or not, Jay, LexCorp reached out to me and apparently, their new CEO has faith in my self-perpetuating generator."

"Lex fuckin' Luthor? When did this happen?? And why didn't you tell me before?"

"Well, there _are_ no confirmed purchases yet, so I didn't see a point in telling."

"Tell me anyway!" Jerome exclaims in disbelief, as if Jeremiah's decision to keep mum about his unrealized success deeply offends him to the core. "By the way, did Wayne get in touch?"

Jeremiah pauses. "...Bruce?"

"Not the kid, the _company_ ," Jerome says, narrowing his eyes at his brother who's swallowing anxiously at the moment, "Did they call you up?"

"No… Why are you asking about Wayne Industries specifically?"

Eyes remained fixated on Jeremiah's face to dissect any microexpression that unknowingly shows itself, Jerome explains, "I might have encouraged your boy to talk his father into hiring you."

Jeremiah's eyes widen. "What? Why?"

"Don't you want a job at Wayne Industries?"

"I do."

"Then, there you go. Maybe it's still early. Might call you on Monday or something."

"Maybe… and stop staring at me, Jerome. You're making me uncomfortable."

Jerome arches an eyebrow, shifting closer to the driver's seat as he inquires, "Say, speaking of the kid, how're you and _Bruce_ doin'?"

"...why are you asking?"

"Oh, nothin'. Just wanna know what you guys were sexting about at _three_ in the fuckin' morning, that's all." Holding back his laughter, Jerome watches as his brother's face turn crimson red within five short seconds, his ears rapidly filling up with color. "Wait, that's not what-" Jeremiah stutters and Jerome lets out a shrieking laugh, slapping at his thigh out of habit and wincing at the unexpected pain that he'd cause himself. His empty bag of Doritos falls from his lap onto the carpeted floor.

"So, you WERE sexting?? Oh my FUCKING GOD!"

"NO, I WAS NOT!"

"I'M SO FUCKIN' PROUD OF YA!"

"JEROME, SHUT UP!"

Clutching onto his clothes somewhere above his abdominal area, Jerome laughs out loud until he couldn't anymore, stopping for a mere second to catch his breath, then starts laughing all over again.

"Jerome, it was j-just normal texting," Jeremiah fumbles for words, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightens anxiously around the steering wheel, "We weren't… Everything's _normal_."

"Yeah, texting each other 24/7 is pretty fucking normal, am I right?" Jerome scoffs, "I don't see you texting me 24/7, Miah. Where're _my_ messages, huh??"

"We live together!"

"Well, you don't talk to me 24/7 either!" Jerome argues back playfully, "Come on, gimme some details. What steamy shit have you kids been sharing, huh? Pictures, are there pictures? Videos? Did he send nudes? Did _you_ send nudes?"

"You're getting way ahead of things, Jerome," Jeremiah bites back, prompting a chortle from his annoying brat of a brother, "And a little too excited about this particular topic."

"Of course I am, you're finally gettin' some!"

"I'm not… getting _anything_ , we're just friends!"

"Uh huh, keep talkin' shit," Jerome says, "No one's gonna believe you. I remember the things you told me about him. Oh, how could I forget!"

"Jerome, don't," he warns him.

"You were _obsessed_ with the kid," his brother carries on despite his overt warning, "I remember everything, broski, including finding your stash of newspaper cut-outs of young _Brucie_ boy under your bed."

Absolutely bewildered beyond imagination, Jeremiah's eyes leave the road as he turns his whole head to Jerome, shoe held in place on the accelerator. "WHAT were you-"

"Doing in your room? Snoopin' around, what do you think?" He merely shrugs, not caring that his brother seems to care a lot about the rude invasion of his privacy, "I was bored."

"I'm going to kill you."

Jerome cackles to himself, "Yeah, I love you too, lover boy. Seriously, just get on with it already."

"What do you mean by getting on with it?"

"Do I need to draw it out for you? Just fuck him already. You know you want to."

Jeremiah grits his teeth. "That's it, we're not talking about this anymore," he breathes out heavily, displeased, as he turns up the radio to bring their conversation to an end. How could Jerome even suggest that he…

Don't get him wrong, Jeremiah wants to. Oh, he _wants_ to, so badly, but the way that Jerome had suggested to him that he should… It's as though he hasn't figured out that there are deeper emotions at play. As though Jerome doesn't understand, couldn't even comprehend, that his interest in Bruce Wayne is more than _just_ wanting to bed him. He simply couldn't fully grasp the concept of respect and love.

"Why, what did I say?"

"You're an animal, Jerome."

"No, seriously, what's wrong with what I said?"

Jeremiah sighs, increasing the volume ever so slightly, filling up the interior of his vehicle with a beautiful melody. As a deep soothing voice sings, Jeremiah finds himself listening to every word, clinging onto each syllable religiously as he thinks about _him_.

_Shall I stay? Would it be a sin_

_if I can't help falling in love with you_

Jeremiah jumps as a flash of a hand suddenly flies to his dashboard to change the radio channel. His lips press into a thin line as EDM music blast through the speakers, ruining a rather sentimental moment that he was personally having only seconds ago. Irritated, Jeremiah switches the radio station back to his liking, and Jerome huffs disgruntledly.

"Change the channel, will you? We're on a road trip, not reading newspapers on an old geezer's porch while drinking Earl Grey tea."

_Some things are meant to be._

"No, Jerome."

_Take my hand, take my whole life too._

"Why not?" Jerome asks as if it's the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard Jeremiah say. "News flash, I'm just as much of an owner of this car as you are."

Jeremiah sighs once more. "Because, and I quote," the redhead pushes his glasses into place as he stares challengingly at his nuisance of a brother, "Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Jerome gasps dramatically and the disbelief in his eyes almost makes Jeremiah laugh out loud. "How dare you quote him?" his brother spits, "If anything, you're more of a Sam, you imposter!"

"Whatever, Jerome," he says, "Driver's rules."

"You suck," Jerome sneers, darting his eyes to the grassy plains outside his window, and that marks the proper end to their conversation, at least for the next thirty eight minutes or so.

An eternity, or any one duration that resembles hundreds of millions of years, of driving passes by before the twins pull up on the side of a road on the mountain, realizing, through a few sessions of mindless bickering, that they are, indeed, lost. Who could blame them? If anything, the winding roads are to blame, where one path breaks into two and two breaks into five and, needless to say, without the help of Jeremiah's GPS due to the absence of cell reception in the vicinity, the twins find themselves in a bit of a muddle.

"I think it's this way," Jerome suggests, pointing at the path on the right, face buried behind a fairly large map. Jeremiah has parked by a junction that separates into two pathways, one leading to the east and the other to the direction of northwest.

"I've seen that tree before," Jeremiah gulps.

"All trees look the same," Jerome snaps at him as he shakes the map, growing more and more impatient with each passing second, "Why am I even looking at this? I'm not a map guy, _you're_ the map guy. Take this."

"No," Jeremiah pushes the map away as his brother attempts to shove it into his hand, "Jerome, how could you not know where the resort is? You booked it."

"I didn't exactly spend my time worrying about directions."

"That's the main thing you _should_ do when you're going to someplace _new_."

"Well, it didn't cross my mind, alright?!"

"I presume that it didn't cross your mind either to check if there's cell reception in this vicinity, did it?" Jeremiah watches as the other twin completely ignores his question and jabs a finger at a path on the map, one that he'd suggested for earlier.

"It should be this way."

"Are you sure this time?"

"..."

"Jerome?"

"It's close to seventy percent, maybe…"

"My God," Jeremiah sighs, and at that moment, it's as if God himself had heard of Jeremiah's nagging plead for some holy assistance, and He bestows upon them a miracle in the form of a Chevy Impala, driving pass their parked Prius and onto the path that his brother had chosen to follow.

"Dude, it's an Impala," Jerome gapes, eyes fixated on the rear of the car that's disappearing into the distance between the woods.

"Do you think they're heading to where we're going?" Jeremiah asks, and his brother slaps him on the arm, uttering to him only a single word, "Drive."

Much to Jeremiah's surprise, it turns out that the resort, planted miles away from civilization, hidden and stowed away on top of a mountain, was just a ten-minute drive from where the Valeska twins were parked when they thought that they were lost.

"I told you this was the right way," Jerome says smugly, slapping the driver's arm again with the back of his hand.

"I thought you said that you were only seventy percent sure?" Jeremiah glowers back, catching a glimpse of annoyance in his twin's eyes as they narrow at him.

"Bitch," Jerome mutters.

Upon hearing that, a laugh escapes Jeremiah's throat as he parks the car, running his fingers downwards to swiftly detach the seat belt. Out of nowhere, he hears Jerome scoff out loud in dissatisfaction similar to a neglected toddler and Jeremiah looks up at him.

The twin rolls his eyes. "You're supposed to say it."

"Say what?"

"For fuck's sake, are we even watching the same show?"

Upon realization, it's Jeremiah's turn to roll his eyes. "You're ridiculous," he retorts, prompting a sharp exhale of disappointment from his twin brother. So, to make matters easier for the day, in order to ensure the smooth sailing of plans and to maintain his brother's happiness at an optimum level, Jeremiah huffs internally, giving in to play along.

"Jerk," he exasperates, and his brother instantly beams, unbuckling his seatbelt and leaping out of the Prius.

As he steps onto the parking lot, Jerome breathes in the cold fresh air atop the mountain as he takes in the spectacularly scenic view around him. He's spent so much time running around Gotham City that it feels odd to look up and see tall gigantic trees towering over him instead. The parking lot sits by a cliff, so Jerome takes the opportunity to skip over to the edge of the lot, eyes taking in the green luscious woods that span across the wide unsullied land that leads to an open blue sea. He's never felt this much peace in his life, having never even considered it a possibility.

"It's beautiful."

Jerome nearly jumps as his brother brushes their shoulders together, standing by his side, faithfully as always.

"Yup," Jerome nods in agreement, then slapping an arm over Jeremiah's shoulders, maneuvering him back to their vehicle, "Come on, let's get the bags."

"Truth be told, you surprised me, Jay," Jeremiah says as they walk, "I've never thought that you'd choose _here_ as your preferred getaway."

Jerome shrugs, retracting his arm from his brother's shoulders. "You needed it, and I guess maybe I did too." That is, of course, a _lie_. No matter how partial, it remains as a lie, nonetheless.

Jeremiah nods appreciatively. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

As rare as it can be for his brother show him some love for his efforts, Jerome bites at his tongue to suppress the arising trepidation of Jeremiah accidentally stumbling upon the _real_ reason he'd booked the stay at this particular resort for the weekend. As Jerome attempts to strap all four bags of snacks onto himself once more, Jeremiah moves in to swoop two bags from his grip, a broad grin on his face signifying to Jerome that he's happy. Very happy, in fact.

Jerome cusses internally at himself. Oh, Jeremiah's definitely going to hate him for this. Perhaps it's for the best to take action once he settles in bed for the night. Jeremiah might never find out. Jerome will make sure of that, yes.

Making their way to a tiny hut nearby, Jeremiah holds open the door for him as Jerome enters. For some reason, Jerome halts abruptly in his tracks and Jeremiah could barely stop himself from running into the frozen idiot propped in front of the doorway.

"Hello, welcome to the Kansas Mountain Resort, do you have a booking?"

Jeremiah peers over his brother's shoulder and spots a superbly attractive receptionist who looks like she could model for a living.

"Yes!" Jerome chips in cheerfully as he moves forward, resting his elbows on the receptionist's table, flashing her his pearly whites and throwing in a wink for good measure. "Dean Smith, at your service."

Jeremiah couldn't contain the sudden urge to, once again, roll his eyes at his brother's nonsense. It's becoming a tiring habit to cope with Jerome, that imbecile. Of all the names that he could choose…

He understands that Jerome needs to be extremely careful at all times to cover his tracks. It's highly crucial that he doesn't use his name or go anywhere too public, because Jerome's a fool for choosing the profession that he did. Attending his presentation at university happens to be the furthest Jerome had stretched so far, and of course, Jeremiah appreciates his brother greatly for putting his safety on the line for him, despite having advised him not to.

Nevertheless, Jeremiah couldn't comprehend his brother's justification of stealing and using the identity of fictional characters from popular shows, as if he's testing his luck to see if anyone could figure out that the names are indeed fake.

"Here's your key," the receptionist says, shyly brushing a few strands of hair behind her left ear, "You'll find your room number imprinted on the tag. Have a nice stay, Mr. Smith."

"Oh, call me Dean." Oozing with suave, Jerome takes his leave, brushing past his brother as he makes his way out the door. "Thanks, sweetheart," he calls out without looking back, leaving Jeremiah to acknowledge her existence (like any decent human being would), nodding politely with a small smile before almost running after his twin.

"Dean Smith?"

"Yup, so that makes you Sam Wesson," Jerome says as his face scrunches up in concentration, eyes scouring around for their room number. It's strange that the management of the resort decides that carving it in cursive letters on the doorframe above the door itself is apparently a good idea.

"Sam Wesson?" Jeremiah scoffs, "That won't work, Jerome, we're _identical_."

"Oh…" Jerome stops dead in his tracks before a gleeful giggle escapes from his throat. "Well, then you're Sam Smith." The childish giggle morphs into a weird cackle and Jeremiah fights an arising urge to punch him in the face.

"Home sweet home," Jerome says as he swings open the door to their bedroom for the night. The redhead throws himself onto one of the beds, indirectly, or probably directly, claiming it as his own for the stay. Reaching for the remote control on the nightstand, Jerome switches the television on and revels at what he sees on the screen. "MIAH!" Jerome screams at his direction as he points excitedly at the screen.

Jeremiah sits on the edge of the second bed, his back facing the washroom as he removes his coat, tugging habitually at the round collar of his T-shirt. "Mystery Spot? Haven't you seen this episode for, I don't know, six or seven times already?" Dropping the coat by his lap, a small smile gradually forms as Jeremiah recalls the first time he'd watched the episode with his twin; sitting cross legged on the messy trailer floor whilst snacking on a bowl of popcorn that's two days old in front of a tiny boxy television.

_"Okay, look, yesterday was Tuesday, right? But today is Tuesday too!"_

_"Yeah, no, good, you're totally balanced."_

How the years have gone by. How things have changed.

"News flash," Jerome announces, "There're two episodes back to back, so we're not leaving for the next hour or so. Better find somethin' to do if you're not gonna watch with me."

Jeremiah rests his glasses on the nightstand. "I guess a nap may be slightly overdue," he says, lying on the bed, willing himself to grab some shut-eye. Who knew driving for five hours straight could be this wearing?

"Aww, tired baby," Jerome laughs, "This is why you should've slept when you had the chance, but instead, you'd rather sext your boyfriend."

"For the last time, Jerome, we weren't sexting!"

"Oh, but he _is_ your boyfriend… Right, Miah? Miah. Hey, Jeremiah! You're ignorin' me? Fine, have a good sleep, you big lug."

 

~~~~

 

_Trembling fingers tightening around the spine of his book, Jeremiah forces himself to read. Just fucking read, damn it. But he can’t, not when his mother is moaning feverishly like a wild animal in heat as the frame of a bed, Jeremiah presumes, relentlessly collides against the wall of his room._

_He hates it. He hates that his mother is, as Jerome had once so boldly yelled in her face, a fucking whore. His twin’s defiance had earned him a painful backhanded slap from their mother, one that Jeremiah thought was not deserved. Jerome was telling the truth, after all._

_He has nowhere to go and Jerome's nowhere to be seen, despite the fact that the sun had already set hours ago. He's never been in this neighborhood before. A stranger who loved their show at the circus had generously offered them a place to stay for the night, at least that's what Jeremiah had thought when his mother had accepted the offer._

_Jeremiah lets out a shaky breath as the book falls out of his grip, him having given up on reading once and for all. He’s not in the right state of mind for it. His mother’s moaning grows wilder, more erotic, and more desperate with every… thrust. It’s disgusting. It’s revolting. And so is Jeremiah as he continues to listen in._

 

…………

 

Jeremiah’s eyes flutter open.

Sitting up, he stares blankly ahead with an empty heart thoroughly devoid of emotion.

Jeremiah Valeska stays eerily quiet.

"That's fast," Jerome comments casually, failing to notice that there's something wrong with his brother.

“What time is it?” Jeremiah asks coldly.

“You’ve only slept for twenty five minutes, if that’s what you wanted to know."

As if he hasn't been listening to a word that Jerome's said, Jeremiah stands abruptly, grabbing his glasses and storms out of the room. His brother watches his every move, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to figure out what the hell is going on. It takes a moment, but then, it hits him like a painful backhand across the face. It's happening again. Jeremiah must've dreamt of something that he shouldn't have, lingering memories that he'd kept locked up for years, and now he's acting out. Jerome quickly switches off the television, grabbing his belongings before sprinting after his brother, only to find that Jeremiah is already gone.

Jerome searches for him around the perimeter.

It's not until when he stumbles upon the parking lot that he spots Jeremiah walking aimlessly into the woods alone. He sighs, already exhausted. Backtracking to their room, Jerome straps one of his bags onto himself before leaving again for the woods. If they're about to have a heart-to-heart, there might as well be snacks around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It’s nice to see you again :D
> 
> So, Jeremiah & Jerome’s road trip might occupy three chapters, I’m not sure yet. There seems to be more and more things to explore, so I’m separating it into two chapters first. Basically, I might be posting 2 chapters next week, instead of the usual 1 chapter per week thingy, because I’ve over-written and didn’t see a point in holding back from posting the whole road trip thingy lol
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading again! Let me know what you think about this chapter via the comments or leave a kudo! 
> 
> Have a great day! :D


	7. Chapter 7

As a cold breeze wafts through the calm woods, a tiny robin with a patch of apricot colored feathers highlighting its keel perches atop a nearby branch, tilting its head curiously at the back of a strange man sitting on a fallen tree by the edge of a cliff. Deeming the human to be of no threat, the bird pecks gently at its primped feathers as it grooms.

His sweat feels cold at the touch of the wind.

Jeremiah Valeska is fuming, boiling with a sudden hot rage that materializes as quickly as the vanishing of the nothingness that had consumed him when he awoke. Mood swings, typical. His hand naturally reaches for the right pocket of his jeans, but halfway through, it halts. Jeremiah would find nothing. His pocket, what had once stored countless bottles of pills to help combat his overbearing emotions, is empty. He tugs at his shirt with an accidental harshness and regrets it immediately. He'd loved this shirt.

As a result of severe disconcertment, Jeremiah's itching to tear at something, despising anything and everything that reminds him of her disgraceful existence. So, he digs his nails into his thighs, wishing that they would penetrate through the dark fabric of his jeans to cut at his own skin and draw blood. His mother, the filthy slut. His mother, the catalyst that bolsters his ineludible insanity. She did this to him. She's the cause of his irreparable state. She and... Jeremiah freezes in place at the thought of him. 

As his fingers begin to tremble uncontrollably and his chapped lips start to quiver, Jeremiah forces his eyes shut, clasping his hands together, squeezing ever so tightly to calm himself. And just like that, within an instant, anger transforms into fear. As a coldness travels down his spine, similar to rubbing a block of ice along his back, the hairs on his neck rise at the memory of the older man and Jeremiah wants to cry.

"Found you."

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice, not recognizing, for a second, that it belongs to Jerome.

"You okay?" 

Dropping a bag onto his feet, the twin settles comfortably on the log, brushing knees with Jeremiah as he expeditiously tears open a bag of potato chips, holding it in front of him as a peace offering.

Jeremiah sniffles, weakly shaking his head to decline. "I'm okay, Jay."

"You wanna talk about it?"

Gently, Jerome pries apart his brother's tightly clasped hands and turns his palms towards the clear blue sky, generously pouring some potato chips onto the open palms as he patiently waits for a response. Initially, Jeremiah shakes his head again, looking away into the distance as tears begin to well up in his eyes. He simply needs a minute to calm down. That's all he needs, and Jerome, as usual, understands. They sit in silence for the next ten minutes or so, until Jeremiah is ready to speak up.

"Jay, I need to ask…"

"Shoot," Jerome says encouragingly, bumping a shoulder against his brother's like they used to when they were kids, "I'm all ears, Miah."

His breath catches in his throat as he suddenly reconsiders having a heart-to-heart conversation with someone apart from his therapist. He's never done it before but… what's he talking about? Jeremiah cusses at himself. It's Jerome. If there's someone in the universe who'll understand him better than anyone else, better than a professional with a doctorate certificate, it'd be Jerome. It'd be his twin brother who'd stuck through with him from day one. He's the one who'll understand everything because he's  _ seen _ everything. Well, almost… everything.

Jeremiah swallows. "Have you ever wondered... how our lives would've been if we were born somewhere else?"

Jerome pauses momentarily, propping a potato chip into his mouth as he thinks about his brother's question, eyebrows pulling together when he nods. "Well, I used to," Jerome admits quietly, kicking at the soil beneath his shoes, "Then, I quit thinkin' about it."

"Why?"

He shrugs.

"Didn't see a point, I guess. We were, I don't know, about twelve. The circus was all that we had. We didn't know anyone from the outside and we definitely had nowhere else to go. Figured to screw it and make the best out of it, you know? Have fun, cause some fuckin' trouble. I mean, our lives were fucked up, sure, there's no doubt about it, but, I had you. My dearest partner in crime. My pain in the ass brother. You're my stone, my pillar, my whatever. YoU'rE mY eVeRyThInG."

As Jerome laughs at his own hilarity, Jeremiah manages to form a small smile. "I'm glad you find comedy in our tragic lives, Jerome," he says.

"Oh, our lives are nothin' if not tragic, for sure," Jerome adds, nodding in agreement, "But nobody can change the past, Miah. What we  _ can _ change is how we look at it, and learn to laugh about it because, trust me, it makes everything easier."

"Yet somehow, I still find that hard to do," Jeremiah says, catching a glimpse of a robin flying by to perch on a nearby branch above their heads, and something tugs at his heart. When they were kids, Jerome had never had the patience for bird watching, but Jeremiah did. He'd watch them fly from tree to tree, grooming under the sunlight before flying off to anywhere else to which they so desire. He was envious of the freedom that these birds possess, much unlike the ones he's seen in the circus. Jeremiah had never liked looking at those caged birds because they reminded him of himself. 

Never free, never will be.

"Somehow, I can't see the funny side, Jay," Jeremiah says, "All I can see… and feel… and process is pain and suffering. The memories that haunt me-"

"Are nothing but  _ memories _ ," Jerome immediately cuts him off, resting an arm around his shoulders. He squeezes gently, offering as much comfort as he could possibly give as he speaks quietly so only both of them could hear. "They're just  _ memories _ , Miah. Nothing more… They can't hurt you."

"But I can still remember," Jeremiah chokes out, "Jay, I remember everything."

"Then, I'll help you forget. I'll help you to move on. Miah, I'll help you through everything. You just have to let me know when something's wrong," Jerome speaks softly, face hovering inches away from the other twin's, "You're my brother and I'll always be here for you. I'll do anything for you. I'm  _ here _ , Miah, always, even when you get sick of me."

"I'll never get sick of you," Jeremiah says quietly, "You're the only family I have."

"And families stick together," Jerome merely whispers back this time. It's an old promise, one that binds the twins since they were kids. With chapped lips pulling apart to reveal a warm smile, Jeremiah nods, repeating after his brother's words to himself as Jerome rests his forehead against his, shoulders slumping as relief wash over him.

Sentimental moments between the twins are, as always, short-lived for it only takes almost half a minute before the odor of Jerome's breath looms into Jeremiah's nostrils, prompting him to pull back, although reluctantly, silently wishing that he could maintain the closeness for a little while longer. 

"Your breath stinks of Doritos and processed sugar," Jeremiah jokes, laughing effortlessly for once as the bottled up tension gradually dissipates. 

"Gee, thanks for ruining the moment," Jerome scowls, "And it's Lays, genius. There's no way you could smell Doritos  _ now _ . That's fuckin' impossible." 

A laugh escapes from Jeremiah's throat, and with adoration and a most sincere gratitude, he snakes his own arm around Jerome's shoulders, hugging him tightly against his side, just like they used to do when they were kids.  
  


~~~~  
  


"Say, I'm thinkin' of trying my luck with hotness at the booth, so you can go on back to the room without me. I'll meet you there."

Jeremiah squints at his brother in confusion as they stroll through the parking lot, returning to their room to grab some essentials before heading out for the rest of the day. "Who?" he questions.

"The chick at the reception," Jerome responds with a slightly offended look on his face, "Come on, it can't be  _ that _ easy to forget a face like that."

"Oh, her," Jeremiah frowns, "I didn't forget. I just didn't know who you were talking about."

Jerome scoffs. "If you were straight, you would've known."

His mouth falls agape at the unwarranted jab at his preference. Jeremiah straightens his back, shoving at his brother and Jerome almost loses his balance. In response to a second shove, Jerome skips aside with perfect agility, effectively dodging the assault, cackling out loud as he does. 

"Wow, is that how you're going to justify it?" Jeremiah questions, lips pulling into a smile as Jerome nods cheekily.

The twins part ways as Jerome takes his leave for the reception's hut, hearing a bell ring above his head as he pushes the door open. "Hey, beautiful," Jerome calls out charmingly, approaching the receptionist with confidence and suave, "Question: The lights in my room are flickering like crazy, not sure what's up with that. You guys don't have any ghosts or demons lurkin' around here, do you?" Jerome holds the urge to visibly wince at how cringey his question is. It truly sounded better in his head, but it's still a start.

The receptionist laughs. "No, sir-"

"Please," Jerome says as he widens his grin, "Call me Dean."

"Okay, Dean, um, we don't have anything supernatural haunting our guests at this resort," she says, "but I could get someone to take a look at it."

"That'd be awesome, thanks," Jerome winks and revels as the attractive receptionist lets a giggle escape, "Say, can I ask about one of the visitors here? A friend of mine, Butch Gilzean, is stayin' here as well, but silly ol' me lost the paper he gave me that had his room number on it. If you'd be so kind, could you do me a favor and direct me to the room that he's in?"

"Sure," the receptionist nods, brushing her hair aside as she types something on the keyboard. A few seconds later, she turns to Jerome with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, but it looks like no one has checked in today by that name."

"Oh, maybe he's just running late," Jerome flashes her a cheshire grin before taking his leave, "Thanks, sweetheart."   
  


~~~~  
  


Resting at the foot of the mountain is a small town with a population of 15,679 and counting, and is the closest spot of civilization in the surrounding area. A pamphlet attached to the resort's announcement board indicated that there's supposed to be a night market in town for the weekend, and the twins haven't been to one in ages, not since their circus days. Therefore, Blighttown is the perfect place to waste their few remaining hours of daylight before heading back to the resort at midnight.

"Midnight?" Jerome turns to him incredulously, "We're on vacation, broski, fuck curfews."

"You don't have to remind me time and time again that we're on vacation, I know that," Jeremiah says, "And that's just an estimate, Jerome. You and I both know that you'd prefer to waste your hours away by partying and drinking instead of actually sleeping."

"Isn't that you too but with sexting?"

"Jerome, for the LAST time-"

" _ Blah blah blah _ ."

Tugging at his seatbelt out of annoyance, Jeremiah makes a left turn onto the main street. In contrast to Gotham City, the tallest building in Blighttown is only four storeys high. Perhaps, he shouldn't compare the buildings in this town, considering that instead of skyscrapers, Blighttown mostly comprises of cottages and cabins built out of bricks and wood panellings. Nevertheless, though the streets here may be similar in width and outlook, the pedestrians, however, are incomparable to the city slickers in Gotham. Jeremiah notices that people here seem to move at a slower pace. Most likely, that's how life  _ is _ here as well. From the looks of things, everyone around seems much more relaxed, unlike everyone else in the city who, from the outside, looks like they've always got places to be and have zero time to waste.

Jeremiah pulls into a parking spot facing the entrance of a local pub. After observing the interior through its tall windows, he deems the location to be decent enough for his brother's liking, at least for their one night in the area.

"How about we stop by for some drinks later?" Jeremiah asks, killing off the engine as he speaks. Strangely enough, his brother doesn't answer. Jeremiah looks over to the other twin, patting him on the arm as he calls his name.

"Hmm?" Jerome spins his head around, as if he'd just been woken up from a trance. It does seem like it.

Jeremiah frowns. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Jerome merely says, darting his eyes sideways as he tries to avoid eye contact, "I'm okay. And yes, we'll stop by here for some drinks. Later. Tonight."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Meh," Jerome shrugs, deep in thought as he climbs out of the Prius.

Jeremiah peers over the roof of the car, watching his brother's every move. "What's bothering you?" 

"Nothin'," Jerome says, trying to come up with the best lie to mask the fact that he's cracking his head thinking about where the fuck Butch Gilzean could possibly be, because he's supposed to fucking be here to-fucking-day. "I, uh…" Fuck everything.

"Is it about the receptionist?" Jeremiah asks quietly as he walks to his side.

"Yeah… yeah, I just…"

"Look, don't beat yourself up about it, Jay," Jeremiah comforts, "There are other fish in the sea."

"Yeah, you're right," Jerome shuts the door as he steps onto the sidewalk, "You know what, let's just fuck it all and have some fun, eh? That's what we came here for, right? Fuck everythin' else."

Visiting the market happens to be a top priority for the twins, considering that it's a prominent highlight in their childhood for the good times they've shared. It's an experience that Jerome holds dearly, so fuck anything that tries to screw it up. Butch Gilzean, and his orders for that matter, can fucking wait.

They walk towards the market.

Reminiscent of all of the markets the twins have visited before, Jeremiah surprisingly feels comfortable navigating through the crowds, feeling as though he's walking on familiar grounds once again. The circus tends to stop by at different towns, and even cities, throughout the year, and each time, whenever the twins could find a grand opportunity, both Jeremiah and Jerome would run off from their group to visit the markets, which had obviously stirred up a lot of trouble for the twins.

Jeremiah recalls vividly of the times when they were lectured for abandoning their tasks of feeding the circus animals and cleaning their stables, and by the term 'lectured', it was more of being yelled at and, as a punishment for their disobedience and irresponsibility, not being fed for the proceeding day and a half. That, of course, didn't stop the two of them from running off again when the next opportunity arises.

Deemed as wayward children, the twins were not only causing trouble in the circus, but also in the markets as well. Jerome would grab him by the hand as that rascal ran through the crowd, escaping from vendors he had so bravely stolen from. Despite the usual loot that consisted of fruits and other foods, Jeremiah does, also, recall vividly when Jerome had tried to steal a llama from an inattentive owner who was busy entertaining some customers.

"Are you insane??" Jeremiah had hissed at his brother as the lunatic tried to cut the leash made out of a thick rope with a tiny razor. "How are we even going to get it out of here??"

"We'll ride it!" Jerome had hissed back. 

Back in the day, having seen it first hand, Jeremiah can infer that his brother was a stupidly confident little rascal, and he still is, to this day. He remembers when Jerome tried to mount the llama to escape. In response to his rudeness and assertiveness, said llama proceeded to step aside whenever his brother attempted to climb on, side-eyeing the little brat as he slid off its furry body time and time again. Then, Jerome decided to tug at the leash, leading the llama out of its pen to carry out his plan B to escape.

Despite failing miserably in the end, because they were caught red-handed trying to smuggle a fully grown llama, Jeremiah still finds the memory to be lovely. When they had returned to the circus, llama-less, Jerome took care of the wounds on his palms and knees, both sustained from Jeremiah's accidental trip during their escape. "It's okay," Jerome had said to him while dressing his wounds, "You'll be okay."

Jeremiah smiles fondly at the memory.

"Holy shit," Jerome exclaims as he discovers the one thing that they didn't expect to find at a market in a town situated miles away from urban civilization: freaking bubble milk tea.

"No," Jeremiah instantly blurts as he reaches out to grab at Jerome's jacket to stop him from running over to the booth, but it's already too late. Jerome returns a while later with the largest cup that they serve, relishing the sweetness of the beverage as he slurps up as many tapioca pearls as he can into his mouth. 

"Here, try some," Jerome offers, bringing the cup to his face.

"No, thanks," Jeremiah stares judgingly, knowing that his brother has already consumed more sugar than the recommended daily average intake within the past six hours or so.

"Don't judge it till you try it," Jerome complains, "Come on, just take a sip."

Submitting to peer pressure, Jeremiah takes a hesitant sip, immediately tasting the sweetness of the beverage and, as much as he hates to admit it, the tea is surprisingly quite delicious. Come to think of it, he sort of understands the craze for bubble milk tea now.

"You gotta suck the balls too," Jerome suddenly says and Jeremiah instantly pulls back from the straw. For some reason, his brain decides to flash him an image of Bruce Wayne and, just,  _ what the hell _ . Feeling rather agitated, and a little awkward, Jeremiah hisses at his brother for suggesting what he'd suggested.

"Jerome, don't say that."

"Why not?" 

"Just don't say that to me," Jeremiah hisses again.

"Fine! Just eat the balls,  _ please _ ," Jerome says as he impatiently taps his feet on the ground.

Submitting to peer pressure again, Jeremiah hunches over to seal his lips over the straw, but halts immediately when he feels his brother's eyes boring into his skull. He doesn't understand why he's afraid of Jerome finding out that he's thinking of Bruce at this very moment, and his immense embarrassment for it, but, nonetheless, the imagery of Bruce sucking up the pearls into his mouth makes Jeremiah's breath hitch, just ever so slightly.

"Could you please stop staring at me while I drink?" Jeremiah asks his brother.

"What's wrong with me st-"

"Just look away, please!"

" _ Fine _ , you're a real piece of work," Jerome mutters vexly under his breath as Jeremiah hurrily slurps at the bubble milk tea, pulling back as soon as there're enough tapioca pearls in his mouth, all the while maintaining no eye contact whatsoever with his twin brother.

As dusk inevitably befalls upon the peaceful neighborhood of Blighttown, the twins have explored the entirety of the market, carrying a few bags of food and souvenirs in hand to bring home for both Ecco and Bruce. After storing the bags in the boot of their car, the twins enter the nearby local pub, ordering a few bottles of beer and a plate of onion rings as they sit by a table in the middle of the establishment.

Jeremiah snaps a few pictures of their surroundings, including the live band playing on stage, and sends it to his closest friend. Within the next minute, his phone rings as it receives a new notification.

BRUCE:  **Place looks great. Wish I could be there.**

JEREMIAH: **Me too, but** **I think you'll find our company to be a little too overbearing, especially when Jerome gets drunk.**

BRUCE:  **Beats reading all these reports. All I see when I close my eyes now are numbers and numbers only. :(**

JEREMIAH:  **I'm sorry to hear that lol I wish I could be there with you as well. My expertise may not be in finance but maybe I could help you out somehow.**

BRUCE:  **Are you sorry? Because that 'lol' just contradicted you haha I'm sure there are things that you could help me out with :)**

"You know, it's rude to have your phone out during a social outing, brother."

Jeremiah looks up from the device. Instead of replying to Bruce, he keeps the phone in his pocket, bringing forward his bottle of beer before clinking it against Jerome's. "My apologies," he says as he takes a sip from his beer.

Jerome shakes his head to himself. "What's the longest, uh, duration that you've gone without textin' this kid, Miah?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity," Jerome grins.

"If you have to know, Jerome, it's hours," Jeremiah admits, "Maybe six or seven. I didn't keep track."

Seemingly shocked, Jerome lets out a whistle as he straightens in his seat. "What do you two even talk about?" he asks, "And before you roll your eyes at me, I'm askin' out of genuine curiosity, alright? 'Cos you know me, I don't have the patience for this textin' crap, especially if it goes on for hours and days on end."

"Perhaps it's just not your preference of communication, Jerome."

"Well, I don't call either," he says, "You, for one, would know."

Jeremiah smiles. 

"Yes, I do," he nods thoughtfully, "In all honesty, Bruce and I talk just about everything, but there's nothing sexual in our conversations, just putting it out there for you to understand."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Jerome slurs, waving dismissively at his brother as he carries on.

"We've talked about school, our hobbies, our likes and dislikes… I don't know how to explain it, Jay. Our conversations could start by asking one another about the weather yet somehow it'll blossom into something else that's entirely different. We could text for hours on end and it never gets boring. Plus, it's always so easy to talk to him. We just match, strangely, in our own ways."

"Hmm… Well, first of all, this is the first time I've heard someone actually say 'blossom' out loud," Jerome states and Jeremiah rolls his eyes, "Second of all, it seems to me, baby bro, that Brucie boy has gotten under your skin, and that's dangerous, if you ask me."

"I know..." Jeremiah nods thoughtfully, "If it gets out of control, I'll back off."

Jerome shakes his head, leaning over the table as if it'll better the chances of getting his point across. 

"I'm not talkin' about what you'll do to him," he says, "I'm worried about what you'll do to yourself."

Jeremiah pauses. "What do you mean?"

"Emotional attachment," Jerome says, "Never a good idea. We've seen it first hand and know what it does to people like us, broski. You get too attached to one thing and, the next thing you know, it comes back and bites you in the ass."

"I understand…"

"Nothing is permanent in this world, Miah, only family," Jerome says as he pops an onion ring into his mouth, "Just a good ol' tip from little ol' me."

He wants to argue that Bruce is different, that whatever friendship or relationship that's brewing between them will, without the slightest doubt, last. Yet deep down, Jeremiah can't help but feel that his brother could be right, and it terrifies him.  
  


~~~~  
  


Rattling the key against the door knob, Jerome snorts in laughter as he fails to stick the key into the keyhole and Jeremiah sighs, reaching overto snatch it away from his brother's hands.

"Let me do it," Jeremiah exhales through his nose as Jerome swipes his hand away.

"I'll do it," he says stubbornly, "I'm not that drunk."

As he pushes the door open, Jerome stumbles into the room, and then, everything else happens in a flash. At the exact moment when Jeremiah steps into the room, he's roughly yanked to the side and the door slams shut behind them without warning. Jerome hears a gun cocking beside his ear and he freezes on the spot. The lights flicker on and Jerome discovers five men, all of whom have nothing better to do than to wait for the twins to return to the room in complete fucking darkness.

The door to their washroom squeaks open and Jerome sobers up immediately. Fuck.

"A little birdie tweeted that you were looking for me, Valeska," Butch Gilzean hums, looking around the room with an obvious disinterest in his eyes, "Well, here I am."

Jeremiah clutches fearfully onto the arm locking his neck in position as he struggles to escape from his captor's painful grip. "J-Jerome?" he stutters helplessly, and before Jerome could come up with an escape plan, one of the goons collides his fist against the side of his face and knocks him down onto the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> So, I hope you like this second part of Jeremiah & Jerome’s road trip! Let me know what you think of the chapter via the comments or leave a kudo! 
> 
> Thanks again for reading & see you in the next chapter!
> 
> Have a great day :D


	8. Chapter 8

Dazed by the impact, Jerome attempts to regain his footing, managing it with the help of one of Butch Gilzean's ratbags as he yanks him up roughly by his collar. The overexertion of force causes the fabric to dig painfully into Jerome's neck and, in retaliation to this unlawful mistreatment, Jerome charges an elbow into the other man's abdomen, drawing out a satisfying grunt of pain that fills his ears.

"Would it kill you to be a bit more gentle, huh?" Jerome coughs out, lips cracking into a smile as he rubs at the red line gradually forming around his neck. To be honest, he misses this. Having been off duty recently and spending most of his days lounging on the couch, Jerome’s only excitement derives merely from watching television and, well, television. It’s been awhile since he’s seen blood. Today may very well be his lucky day, he thinks, though that’s before he spots the distressing fear in his brother’s eyes as he’s held captive by one of Butch’s goons. His heart sinks and anger boils within him. The spectacle alone is enough to make him go all out on a murder spree within these four walls, but Jerome forces himself to stay put, recalling the last time Jeremiah had seen him at work and how badly it’d affected him. There’s no need to repeat that anytime soon, so Jerome stands his ground for his brother's sake.

Butch draws out a long sigh. "It's great to see you, old friend.”

"You always know how to throw a welcome party, big guy," Jerome jokes lightly, a disquieting grin spreading across his face that absolutely contradicts the friendliness in his tone. His eyes dart around the room to spot for any possible escape routes. So far, nada, so he clasps his hands together in front of him, deciding to go with the flow, whichever it may be. "So, how can I help you, old buddy, old pal?" 

"I should be asking you the same question," Butch presses his lips into thin line. It's obvious that the mob boss is repressing his inner resentment as he speaks. "Assuming that my expectations are correct, you're here to chop my head off and fetch it back to your master, yes?"

Jeremiah widens his eyes at his brother.

"See, first of all," Jerome chuckles, "I get paid for the work that I do, so technically, he's my employer. Second of all, death by decapitation isn't exactly my style, not much of a _flair_ to it, but then again, pay me enough and I'll get the job done, you know?"

"Don't waste my time, Valeska."

 _"Three_ , you're smart enough to figure out what would've happened if you double-cross the big boss, but you went ahead with selling Cobblepot those guns anyways."

"You're fighting on the losing side, boy," Butch says, stepping forward, "Cobblepot's leading. Soon, he'll have full control over Gotham and where do you think Galavan's going to end up? He'll have the cops turning the city upside down looking for him, and when they do, Galavan's as good as dead. You'll have nowhere to hide because they'll be looking for you too."

"Sounds exciting," Jerome snickers, "But I'll take my chances."

"Then, you'll end up in Blackgate with the rest of his degenerates."

"Aaand there it is," Jerome's grin grows sinister, pinpointing the main reason that drives his former employer to sabotage his current employer's businesses, "Skipper promised you protection."

"And more," Butch nods, "Which is the reason why you’re still alive. Taking into account of our past collaborations and how much you've helped me before, I'm offering you a chance to join our side, despite everything."

"Everything?" 

"Yes, even after the fact that you've betrayed us, we'll wipe that off your slate too," Butch sighs, "See, I've always liked you, kid. You've done well throughout the years. This empire is built on your hard work too. However, it has come to a point where I have to decide for the wellbeing of our brothers and sisters, because Galavan's empire won't stand for very long. Whether they're able to put food on their families' table depends solely on me. I didn't double-cross Galavan for nothing, kid. He turned his back on us first. Too caught up with the competition. He’ll do anything to stay on top, even if it drags all of us down with him."

"So, you're inviting me to join your little boyband to kick my own boss to the curb?" Jerome asks.

"I'm inviting you to join me so you can survive," he says, "In the long run, things won't look too good, but with Cobblepot keeping us afloat, there's a guarantee that money can still be made. Also, your power-crazed boss doesn't value loyalty, only results. On our side, we forgive, Valeska, because we live by the concept of faithfulness and brotherhood. We protect each other."

"Sounds like a big happy family," Jerome chuckles, "But like I said, I'll take my chances. You can tell Kowalski that I'm not interested."

Butch sighs again. "How disappointing," he breathes out. Suddenly, Jeremiah cries out in pain. Jerome watches, powerless, as one of the bastards punches his brother in the gut, twice. 

"Leave him alone," Jerome barks with warning, his grin vanishing. Watching his brother’s face scrunch in pain, he’s close to losing it, and when he does, all of these walls will be painted in red hot blood. He’ll tear their limbs off, one by one.

"You must be the twin," Butch Gilzean stares him down, approaching slowly, "I've heard so much about you, Jeremiah." 

Jerome hisses, "He's not a part of this.”

"Perhaps not," Butch hums thoughtfully, "But we could still have some fun with him. I'm sure you wouldn't mind. Maybe we'll even throw him off a roof, see how he likes it."

"Well, I’ve always known that you lack imagination but that’s a little uncreative for getting revenge on your account," Jerome sneers in response, and something snaps in the other man, driving him to violently grab Jerome by the collar of his jacket, jerking him forward.

"Those were my men, Valeska, all seven of them!" Butch spits angrily in his face, "Have you got any idea how much it pains me to break the news to their families? To their children?"

"I did warn you, _old pal_ ," Jerome stays chillingly calm, despite wanting to dig a knife into the guy's stomach over and over again, "Walk away, I've said, but you didn't listen. If you're gonna put the blame on anyone, guess who?"

The grip tightens around his collar. Jerome focusses on remaining calm. 

Darting his eyes between the redhead’s, Butch searches for guilt, for empathy, for any shred of humanity that could convince him that the younger isn't as cold blooded as he seems. He scoffs out loud. "You really are incapable of feeling any remorse, Valeska. You're broken." 

Butch shoves the kid away as he steps back, turning his heels onto his twin instead. "You don't know anything?" he asks coldly.

Jeremiah shakes his head, fear visible in his eyes.

"I find that hard to believe."

Immediately, Jerome darts in front of his brother, ignoring the startled men as they raise their guns in surprise and props himself in between the two, shielding his brother from the assailant. Butch’s hand freezes above his holster, seemingly stunned at Jerome’s astonishing protectiveness for someone else. This is the most humane that he’s seen him throughout the years as Jerome’s eyes glower dangerously into his. So, there’s his weak spot, Butch realizes, his own brother.

"You wouldn't," Jerome barks, "That goes against your code."

"I'm sure our brothers would forgive me for breaking it this one time," Butch says, raising the weapon to aim over Jerome's shoulder at his brother, "You betrayed me, boy. Betrayed all of us. I'm not letting this go easily, no matter the years of friendship that we have behind us."

"You got me, just let my brother go."

"I wasn't aware that my men had a choice, Valeska."

"Because you've made that fuckin’ choice for them," Jerome raises his voice, prompting one of Butch's bodyguards to step up, cocking a gun at the side of his head, "My brother has nothing to do with this, so point that fuckin' gun somewhere else."

"How did it feel when you murdered my men, Valeska?" Butch asks dangerously, ignoring his insistent demands, keeping the barrel of his gun pointed in between Jeremiah’s eyes, "Knowing you, I'd say you've had your fair share of fun on that rooftop. Now, I want you to think of that when you see me put a bullet through your brother's skull."

"Do it,”Jerome snarls, ”And none of you will be leaving this room. I'll make sure of it. You know that I can.”

Butch stares at him, now boiling with rage, "Are you threatening me? Do you think you have the right, boy? I was the only one who even bothered to convince him to give you a second chance every single time you fucked up. You thought you had it better than everyone else because you're worth something to Galavan? No, you're still breathing today because I had your fucking back!"

Jerome grits his teeth.

"And now, you have the audacity to threaten me after what you've done, Jerome?"

The room goes silent. Jerome watches Butch's every move just as much as he's watching him. He swallows. It’s highly likely that a fight would eventually break out, and he needs to come up with an escape plan, fast. Jeremiah’s safety is the only priority at this point. He won’t let anything happen to his brother. Jerome could never forgive himself if something did. All hope seems lost before, suddenly, a cell phone rings and every head in the room darts towards its direction. Clearing his throat at the awkward timing, Butch retrieves the device and holds it against his ear. He nods, twice, before handing it over to Jerome.

The redhead eyes him suspiciously. "Hello?"

"Good evening, Mr. Valeska." Jerome bites his tongue at the familiar cheery voice on the other end of the call.

"Mr. Cobblepot," he says, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Am I calling at an inconvenient time?"

"No, it's a very convenient time, actually."

“Great,” Oswald Cobblepot rejoices, “I was wondering if Butch has reached out to you about the position that we’re offering to you. I apologize if it’s on such short notice, but we’re in dire times, as you are probably aware of.”

“I’m aware.”

“I see, so what say you, Mr. Valeska? Are you interested?”

“How much are you willing to guarantee that you’ll keep my brother safe from Galavan?” Jerome asks, “If I were to join your little group.”

“In monetary terms, I’d say quite lucratively,” Oswald responds, “In others, we do have _more_ people and resources to ensure that your brother and yourself are kept in safe hands, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Jerome grits his teeth. Reject the offer, and they’ll both die tonight. Accept, and maybe they’ll live until next month, assuming that his boss hasn’t figured out by then that Jerome’s working for the enemy behind his back. Frankly, he’s not left with much of a choice here.

“I’m interested,” Jerome says.

“I’m very happy to hear that, Mr. Valeska,” Oswald exclaims, “Now, could you so kindly pass the call back to Butch? I’ll ask him to get out of your hair for the time being. Oh, and I look forward to working with you. Can’t wait. Have a lovely night.”

“You too, Mr. Cobblepot,” Jerome says before tossing the phone back.

It takes a few minutes, but when the mob boss and his men finally leaves their room and shuts the door behind them, Jerome rushes over to his brother's side, checking him for injuries.

“Are you okay?” he asks worriedly, “Does it hurt?”

Jeremiah shoves his hands away, staring quietly at the wooden floor.

Jerome freezes. He doesn’t know what to do.

"I asked you about those people thrown off the building and you told me-"

"Miah, I'm sorry."

"-that you had nothing to do with it," Jeremiah merely whispers.

"I’m sorry, I couldn't tell you," Jerome says, "We agreed that I keep you out of things about my work, remember? That's what I did, I kept my promise."

Jeremiah turns away, walking off towards the other end of the room.

"I'm sorry, okay?” Jerome pleads, “Look, I’ll apologize for as many times as you need, but just look at me, please.”

“I’m… I’m going to take a shower,” Jeremiah simply says, grabbing his handful of clothes before locking himself in the bathroom, leaving Jerome to think about what he’s done, and what he’s failed to do as a brother. When the other twin finally shows himself again, he proceeds to climb into his bed without even sparing Jerome a glance, which just fucking hurts him even more.

 

~~~~

 

The next morning, Jeremiah wakes up to the smell of cheeseburgers.

Rubbing his eyes sleepily, he tosses around in his bed. Gradually, he opens them, letting his eyes adjust to the bright sunlight shining in through the window pane. “Rise and shine, sleepy head.” He hears his brother’s voice for the first time this morning and wishes that he hadn’t, because now he’s hurting again.

“I got you a cheeseburger,” Jerome speaks quietly as he tries to start a casual conversation between the two of them, “You wouldn’t believe it. These guys in town open, like, super early in the morning and their burgers are already, like, half sold out by the time I get there. It’s crazy.”

Jeremiah shuts his eyes, breathing out through his nose as he turns onto his other side in bed, preferring to face the bathroom door rather than his brother, and Jerome sighs internally. 

Well, at least he eats the cheeseburger later on, Jerome tells himself, so that’s something. 

When it’s time to leave, Jeremiah walks out first, leaving Jerome to pack his things alone in the room. His brother had hinted that he’s heading to the receptionist to check out on their behalf, but Jerome, of course, knows what’s truly happening. Jeremiah’s giving him the cold shoulder.

The silence persists on as Jeremiah drives them back to Gotham City, and by the second hour, Jerome could handle it no more.

“Look, Miah, I’m sorry,” Jerome starts, “I shouldn’t have lied to you and basically tricked you into going on this road trip with me. Yes, I had a job to do, but no, I didn’t see you as just my medium of transport, or whatever it is that you’ve called it before. I really thought that going to the mountain and having a little peace and quiet would be good for you, and well, I thought that I could also get away with _multitasking_ at the same time, and that you wouldn’t find out about it. I’m sorry, Miah. I really am.”

Still, no response.

“I don’t know what you want me to do, honestly,” Jerome continues, “You can’t _not_ talk to me forever, because that’s near impossible, broski, seeing that we live together.”

“I could always move out,” Jeremiah says suddenly.

“Now, I didn’t mean-”

“Save your breath, Jerome,” he adds.

“Miah, please,” Jerome exasperates. He’s close to begging at this point. “I fucked up, alright? I’m sorry. What do I have to do for you to forgive me, huh? Tell me, I’ll do anything.”

Jeremiah sighs, the sides of his lips turning downward. “Quit,” he simply says, “Just quit.”

Jerome pauses. “You know I can’t, Miah.”

“Can’t or won’t?” his brother challenges. Jerome hates it when the twin acts like this.

“Can’t, because wouldn’t that raise a couple of red flags if I, all of a sudden, quit this schtick?” Jerome sighs, “And won’t, because… because what else could I do?”

Jeremiah’s grip tightens around the steering wheel as he speaks. “You’ve been doing this for long enough, Jerome, and the fact that I’m graduating in two months means that you don’t have to anymore. The revenue earned from my generators can be enough to support us both, and with my degree, I’ll get a steady job and that means steady income for the two of us. Isn’t that enough?” he adds, “Plus, there are other jobs that you can take up in the city if-”

“So, what, you’re gonna have me work at a coffee house and wait tables until my shift ends, so I could come home to you in time for dinner?” Jerome asks incredulously.

“No, not exactly a coffee house.”

“What else?” Jerome argues, “You want me to work a nine-to-five in an office? Dealing with fuckin’ paperwork all day till I’m ready to barf, and then start all over on the next day? Fuck that, Miah. That’s not me.”

The car accelerates slightly as Jeremiah unknowingly applies more pressure onto the pedal. Upon realizing it, he momentarily lifts the sole of his shoe from it to slow the vehicle down, turning to Jerome as he adds, “There are other choices out there, Jerome. You just haven’t found it yet.”

“Alright, time out,” Jerome blurts out as he switches on the radio, ignoring the fact that he isn’t supposed to without the driver’s say-so. “We can talk about this later,” he says, fingers working to search for a suitable station to listen to.

Jeremiah glances over at him for the first time today.

“I hope that you’ll change your mind one day, Jerome,” he says, “I really do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the road trip!
> 
> It's a bit short compared to the previous chapters, but I hope you're okay with it! I've been a bit busy with life recently, and yeah, this is as much as I could come up with for this week.
> 
> Once again, I hope you like the chapter! Let me know what you think via the comments or leave a kudo!
> 
> Thanks again for reading, have a great day :D


	9. Chapter 9

As the quote goes, a new day marks a new beginning, and Jeremiah is determined to start his morning in the best way possible. He climbs out of bed, connecting the Bluetooth speaker Jerome had gifted him last Christmas and lets his songs play on shuffle as he carries on with his daily routine. For his outfit of the day, Jeremiah deliberately picks out his best-looking black button-up, one that he'd gotten quite recently after Ecco had suggested it to him during one of their shopping trips. Rolling the sleeves up to his elbow, he inspects his own reflection for any visible flaws and imperfections, because there will be no room for that today. After all, he’s meeting up with Bruce for lunch. ****  
** **

A small smile appears as Jeremiah tugs at his shirt, sucking in a long and deep anxiety-reducing breath. He switches off the speaker and shuts the bedroom door behind him. Outside, the apartment is silent. The consistent ticking of the clock on the wall rings in his ears as Jeremiah takes his leave, stealthily sneaking out through the front door and hoping that he didn’t cause anything that’ll wake Jerome from his slumber. There are two reasons that could rationalize Jeremiah’s action; number one, he reckons that it’s better for the both of them to have their own space for the time being, considering the fact that the twins didn’t exactly return home in the best condition, and number two, Jeremiah simply wants Jerome to have a good uninterrupted sleep because he deserves it. ****  
** **

Hours fly by as Jeremiah pours his focus and attention into absorbing every single detail during his morning class at university. At eleven o’clock, gathering his belongings, he leaves for his laboratory situated at the other end of the Engineering faculty. Seeing that there’s still time, Jeremiah decides to work on his self-perpetuating generator, tinkering from top to bottom and conducting experiments that tests the battery to its limits. Needless to say, he gets carried away and the experiments end up consuming more of his time than he’d expected. ****  
** **

"Alright, John, if you will,” Jeremiah calls out to his assistant and friend, and as per his request, John shuts the laboratory down, plunging the both of them into complete darkness. Merely two seconds later, a distinctive blue light emits from the heart of the giant battery and the room returns to its illuminated state, lights flickering on without resistance. John smiles satisfactorily while Jeremiah, on the contrary, furrows his eyebrows. ****  
** **

Noticing his aggravation, naturally, John asks, "What's wrong?" ****  
** **

"Nothing," Jeremiah mutters, "But that’s the problem, John. There’s _nothing_ wrong with it." He sighs. “There has to be an underlying issue hiding somewhere. I just need to find out what it is, and where.“ ****  
** **

John leans against the wall, crossing his arms as he watches Jeremiah work. “What’s wrong with the fact that there’s nothing wrong? You’re not making a bunch of sense, pal.” ****  
** **

“Just making room for improvement,” Jeremiah says distractedly as he thoroughly checks the working state of his creation, “The generator has to stand out for it to be successful in the market. I can’t risk having it malfunction or working below the customers’ expectations when they’re finally put to use.” ****  
** **

John shrugs. “Well, alright,” he says, glancing down at his watch, “Say, wanna grab some lunch? I’m starving.” ****  
** **

Jeremiah glances over at the clock hanging on a nearby wall. It reads 11:30. “Actually, I’m meeting up with a friend at one,” he says, fingers splaying over the metal panel built on the side of the generator, “I’m sorry, John. You go ahead without me.” ****  
** **

“Uh, I wouldn’t look at that clock if I were you.” ****  
** **

Jeremiah perks up, slightly confused, “What? What do you mean?” ****  
** **

“The battery’s dead, realized that a while ago,” John says, “It’s actually a quarter to one now.” ****  
** **

If it’s possible for the average human body to move at supersonic speed, Jeremiah might have demonstrated it at this very moment when he abruptly shoots upward, standing upright onto his feet so rapidly that his vision blurs out for a few seconds. ****  
** **

“Whoa, easy there,” his friend laughs, “There’s still time. Don’t worry.” ****  
** **

“I need to go,” Jeremiah mumbles incoherently as he barrels out of the laboratory, patting his friend on the shoulder acknowledgingly and apologetically whilst on his way out. Frantic, he is. Coordinated, he is not. Running to the end of the hallway, as he takes a sharp left turn, Jeremiah bumps into a familiar figure, and by ’bump’, it actually means that he would’ve knocked and simultaneously tackled Ecco onto the ground with the strength similar to a rugby player charging for a goalpost if he hadn’t managed to stop himself in time. ****  
** **

“AHHH!” Ecco’s horrified scream echoes through the hallway. ****  
** **

“Ecco!” Jeremiah almost yells, “I’m so sorry, are you okay?!” ****  
** **

Swallowing down her panic, Ecco speaks, with slight difficulty. “Dear God, w-where’re you running off to? I-I was just about to ask you out for lunch.” ****  
** **

“I’m sorry, I can’t do lunch today,” Jeremiah blurts out, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder as he leaves, calling back over his shoulder as he runs towards the elevator, “Look for John in the lab! He’s looking for a lunch partner too!” ****  
** **

Arching an eyebrow inquisitively, Ecco watches him as the other boy literally leaps into the elevator as soon as it opens, and relentlessly, very impatiently, punching at the buttons with his thumb when the doors take seemingly forever to close. That’s the most erratic Jeremiah has ever been, and she silently wonders to herself about the causality that had made Jeremiah scamper like the way that he did. Admittedly, if there’s nothing serious going on, Ecco thinks that Jeremiah’s flustered state surely makes him look that much more adorable, and she raises a hand to reciprocate the wave that Jeremiah gives her before the elevator doors shut for good. ****  
** **

If there’s ever a time in the future that requires Jeremiah to join a marathon, he’s definitely, absolutely, unequivocally _not_ going to, because he’s done all the running that he needs in his life today as he dashes through the grounds of Gotham State University towards the newly-opened burger joint Bruce had suggested for lunch. He passes the main gate and, soon, rejoices at the wondrous sight of a little cabin with a little red roof. Right before entering through the main door, Jeremiah halts, heaving as he tries to stabilize his breathing, fanning himself fervently with the fabric of his black button-up.  ****  
** **

He can’t enter the diner looking all sweaty and out of breath. What if Bruce is already waiting inside? What sort of impression would he be giving, right? So, Jeremiah opts to recollect himself outside. Glancing around to make sure that nobody’s looking, he swiftly sniffs at his own armpits and makes a funny face. God, he wishes that he had brought along a bottle of cologne.  ****  
** **

Noticing how his glasses have fogged up from the sweat covering his face, Jeremiah removes it, searching for a rare dry spot on his shirt and wipes his lenses with it.  ****  
** **

“Jeremiah?” ****  
** **

As if in perfect timing, or the most imperfect of all, Jeremiah hears a familiar voice behind him and he spins around on his heels. “Bruce,” he gawks, his vision blurry as hell. _Oh, shit_ , _he can’t see._ He puts his glasses back on and curses silently at himself for not doing a better job at cleaning the lenses because how is it possible that there’s now _more_ vapor fogging up his damned lenses?? ****  
** **

“What are you doing out here?” Bruce asks and Jeremiah freezes like a deer in headlights. Noticing the handsome redhead’s soaked button-up, Bruce smirks. “You know, there’s air-conditioning inside.” ****  
** **

“I-I know,” Jeremiah gulps, “I j-just, uh, wanted to look at the, uh, dandelions.”  ****  
** **

Bruce laughs suddenly, prompting Jeremiah to squirm in embarrassment as he notices that the flowers in front of him are definitely not dandelions. So much for trusting his own intuition and say the first thing that comes to his racing mind. “Those are orchids, but okay,” Bruce tells him as he brushes past the redhead to reach for the door handle. Jeremiah scratches awkwardly at the back of his head while he follows the other boy inside. ****  
** **

Quickly, Jeremiah re-wipes the lenses of his glasses for a second time, and a third time, and checking it back and forth to ensure that they’re are nothing less than in pristine condition. The boys settle at a table by the window that looks out to the garden outside, and it’s literally littered with more orchids. Jeremiah stares fearfully at the ones lining up along their window pane, sheepishly glancing over at Bruce in hopes that he doesn’t notice them. Then, something catches his eyes as he sits, his blood running cold at the sight of a four-inch cut across the boy’s temple.  ****  
** **

Bruce is hurt. ****  
** **

“Look at all those dandelions,“ Bruce taunts cheekily, but his smile falters when the redhead doesn’t respond to his attempted humor. ****  
** **

“What happened?“ Jeremiah asks, his back hunching as the worry in his heart grows. ****  
** **

Bruce pauses, eyelids fluttering at the realization of what Jeremiah’s asking about and he shakes his head dismissively. “It’s nothing.” He brushes it off. ****  
** **

“It doesn’t look like it’s nothing.” ****  
** **

“So, what do you want to eat?” Bruce changes the topic abruptly, flipping through the menu in front of him, “I heard that the pork burgers here are quite delicious.” ****  
** **

Jeremiah’s hand reaches across the table to rest on top of the menu. “Bruce, tell me what happened,” he pleads softly, wanting nothing more than to hold onto the other boy’s hand instead, to do his utmost best to provide him with comfort and reassurance, but, of course, Jeremiah strictly keeps his hand on the menu, wary of crossing any boundaries that may exist. “Please?” he pleads again. ****  
** **

“I appreciate your concern, Jeremiah,” Bruce says lightly, “But let’s talk about something else today. Pretend that there’s nothing up there.” ****  
** **

“Bruce…” ****  
** **

The boy merely smiles, gently removing Jeremiah’s hand from the menu with his own, and the butterflies in Jeremiah’s stomach flutter about almost frantically at Bruce’s unexpected warm touch. “I’m okay, Jeremiah, seriously,” he reassures, “You know, truth be told, I’ve been really looking forward to this lunch since last week, so please, can we forget about what’s on my forehead and just have a good time?” ****  
** **

Butterflies. There are literally butterflies in his stomach. Real ones. He’s sure of it.  ****  
** **

“Jeremiah?” ****  
** **

He hesitantly withdraws his hand, fidgeting at his fingers nervously once they’re out of sight underneath the table. Jeremiah’s lips crack into a small but reassuring smile as he sits up in his chair, shoulders squaring as he nods. “Well, I’m glad that you’re okay,” he says softly, darting his eyes downward onto his menu, “So, pork burgers?” ****  
** **

As the warmth in his smile grows, Bruce nods delightfully. “Yes, Selina told me that it’s one of their signature dishes, so we’re definitely trying that.” ****  
** **

Deep in thought, Jeremiah flips through the pages of the menu, wondering if Bruce’s excitement for their lunch is equally equivalent to _his_ excitement. Perhaps there could be a possibility, he thinks. A bulb instantly lights up. If that’s the case, then Jeremiah really shouldn’t disappoint. If Bruce is expecting to have a good time, then he will certainly give it to him. Jeremiah will make sure that today is Bruce’s best day ever, and that it’ll be so utterly memorable that Bruce will never ever forget it.  ****  
** **

“I trust Selina’s judgement,” Jeremiah says as he raises his hand at a nearby waitress to place their orders, and a moment later, he patiently waits for her to leave before reaching into his right pocket to retrieve a small blue box. “This is for you,” he says. ****  
** **

Bruce perks up in his seat. “What is it?” he asks excitedly. ****  
** **

Jeremiah bites nervously at his lower lip.  ****  
** **

“Open it,” he says, watching with anticipation as Bruce carefully removes the lid. As an adoring smile spreads across the boy’s face, Jeremiah couldn’t help but reciprocate one of his own as well. “It’s a handmade letter opener carved in the shape of a bat,” he explains softly, “You mentioned that they’re one of your favorite animals, and that you’re in need of a letter opener, so I hope you like my gift.”  ****  
** **

Bruce beams at him. “Thank you,” he says, almost lovingly, adoration clear as day in his tone, “It’s beautiful, Jeremiah. Where did you get this?” ****  
** **

“I stumbled upon it by chance,” Jeremiah says, “We were at the night market and, admittedly, I was looking around for a gift for you, but the choices were limited and I didn’t know what to get you, because you already have everything.” ****  
** **

“That’s not true,” Bruce laughs. ****  
** **

“No, that’s actually very true,” Jeremiah laughs along, “There’s no point in denying that, Bruce.” ****  
** **

“There is, and I will,” the boy lets out a giggle and it makes the butterflies in Jeremiah’s stomach flutter all over again, “I’ve been meaning to ask, by the way, how was your road trip? How’s Jerome?” ****  
** **

Taken by surprise, Jeremiah pauses for a short while, glancing over at the garden through their window as he processes for an appropriate response. It’s so bright and sunny outside. “It was great,” Jeremiah says, “Jerome was a pain, but there are other things that made up for it. The mountain and the town, for example, are stunningly beautiful. You should visit someday, Bruce. I can guarantee that it’ll take your breath away.” _Just like how Bruce always takes his away_ , Jeremiah thinks to himself. ****  
** **

“Soon,” Bruce says, “I showed your pictures to my mother, only the sceneries, of course, and she loves the place. We’re already planning for a one-week vacation at the mountain, so once my father settles some matters for Wayne Enterprises, you can expect to be bombarded with photos of _my_ vacation, buddy.” ****  
** **

“I can’t wait,” Jeremiah says amusedly. ****  
** **

Shortly after, their long-awaited burgers arrive at the table and Jeremiah nearly drools at its glorious sight when the waitress sets down his plate, breathing in the irresistibly mouth-watering aroma that invades his nostrils. He looks up at Bruce. “After you,” Jeremiah offers. ****  
** **

“Together,” Bruce says, “Let’s see if Selina’s right.” ****  
** **

Hence, this marks their first experience of venturing onto new grounds together. It’s a _personal_ experience that only the two of them share, one that both Bruce and Jeremiah would reminisce about in years to come.  ****  
** **

“OhmyGod, Selina’sright.” ****  
** **

It’s difficult to decipher Bruce’s uttered words, especially when his voice is muffled by the scrumptious bread, the succulent meat, the caramelized onions, and dear God, this burger is delicious, Jeremiah tells himself. Despite not knowing what Bruce had said, Jeremiah responds in the only way that he can for the time being. He moans in agreement. As Jeremiah ducks his head to take a second bite, he looks up to find Bruce gawking at his direction, eyes wide with surprise, and Jeremiah does his best to swallow as much as he could before he’s able to speak again. ****  
** **

“What’s wrong, Bruce?” he asks. ****  
** **

“Uh,” Bruce gulps, somewhat anxiously, strangely flustered for no apparent reason, “Nothing.”

****

~ 40 MINUTES LATER ~

****

The afternoon carries on delightfully. As always, their conversations could never be boring even if they tried, because everything flows naturally, and perfectly, and Bruce _is_ perfect. With every blissful second spent with Bruce, Jeremiah falls a little deeper in love, helplessly, whole-heartedly, and for once, everything in the world seems right and bright with hope. Optimism has never been Jeremiah’s strong suit, but he’s optimistic about _them_ . ****  
** **

As the boys stand to leave, Bruce places a hand onto his shoulder. “It’s on me,” he says, stepping towards the cashier, wallet in hand. ****  
** **

“No, Bruce, allow me,” Jeremiah insists, hand reaching up to grasp at the other boy’s arm. ****  
** **

“Perhaps next time,” Bruce promises, squeezing reassuringly at Jeremiah’s forearm. ****  
** **

And just like that, lunch inevitably ends. How time flies. Jeremiah reckons that Bruce will be heading home shortly, yet he dreads it. He watches as Bruce converses with the cashier, memorizing the curls of his hair at the back of his neck, the soft crinkles in his eyes as he smiles, and the cut that would surely leave behind a scar on his temple when it heals. Jeremiah wonders quietly if he’d succeeded in meeting Bruce’s expectations of having a good time during lunch, and the answer, so far, seems to be a strong ‘yes’. Nevertheless, Jeremiah believes that there’s always room for improvement, so there’s that.  ****  
** **

As the boys approach the exit, Jeremiah skips a step ahead. Holding the door open for Bruce like the proper gentleman he’d raised himself to be, Jeremiah tunes out the excited murmurs and giggles of nearby staff in the diner as he keeps his eyes locked with the boy in front of him. The smile that he receives in return is enough to make Jeremiah melt on the spot. Bruce is so adorable that it should be absolutely criminal. ****  
** **

“Say, Bruce,” Jeremiah clears his throat shyly once they’ve stepped outside, “Would you care for some dessert?” ****  
** **

Bruce turns to him in surprise. “Now?” ****  
** **

Jeremiah nods stiffly, suddenly unsure if it’s a good idea.  ****  
** **

“There’s a place in the city that I’ve been meaning to try and seeing that there’s still time, I was wondering if you’d like to join me,” he says, growing somewhat increasingly nervous with every word that he spews, “I could give you a ride. I-I mean, in my car. _With_ . I mean, w-with my car.” He didn’t mean for it to sound dirty. Truly, he didn’t. Jeremiah sighs helplessly. “What I _meant_ is that I could drive you there, i-if you’d like.”  ****  
** **

Bruce visibly swallows. ”Sure, yeah, I think there’s still room for dessert.” ****  
** **

“Okay, um, t-this way,” Jeremiah blushes as he leads Bruce away from the little cabin with the little red roof.

****

~~~~

****

Jerome huffs disgruntledly as he stares out the window. Riding through a roller coaster of emotions, he’s just passed the terminal of boredom, now proceeding to enter the vertical loop of conflicted grumpiness. He’s upset, and he’s super pissed that his own brother is ghosting him in their own fucking home. Ever since they’ve returned from their road trip, Jeremiah’s been hiding away in his bedroom for hours on end while actively ignoring all of his calls and texts. It’s frustratingly infuriating that there’s no way, not even a minuscule chance in hell, for Jerome to make up for his mistakes when Jeremiah is consistently punishing him for them. Knowing his brother, the silent treatment could persist for weeks and more. ****  
** **

He hates it. Jerome wholly despises the fact that Jeremiah is such a fucking drama queen, but then again, so is he. That’s one thing that runs in the family fucking bloodline. ****  
** **

“Sit tight, boys,” Tabitha Galavan unbuckles her seatbelt before jumping out of the driver’s seat, adding, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” ****  
** **

Aaron Helzinger perks up in his seat beside Jerome. “Where is she going?” he asks, eyes trailing after their lady boss as she runs into a dessert parlour. ****  
** **

“Whaaat?” Robert Greenwood complains from the front seat, “Well, that’s just great. See, it doesn’t matter if the shipment is delayed. The most important thing is that she gets her friggin’ ice cream.” ****  
** **

As Jerome continues to mope in his seat, Aaron lightly pats him on the shoulder to capture his attention. “Do you need anything, Jerome?” ****  
** **

“Yeah, ginger boy,” Greenwood chimes in, “You’ve been awfully quiet back there, and that’s weird because you never shut up. It’s kinda bothering me.” ****  
** **

“Make up your mind, Greenwood,” Jerome drawls, “First, you filed a noise complaint against me, now my silence is bothering you?” ****  
** **

“Kinda, yeah.” ****  
** **

Rolling his eyes, Jerome shifts agitatedly in his seat, watching as Tabitha orders her food by the counter. Then, he spots _him_ . There’s no mistaking for that ridiculous puff of red hair and those nerdy glasses, but that joyous beam on his face, that’s something that Jerome has never witnessed. It’s other-worldly, almost. Jerome straightens in his seat, processing the sight of the boy who looks identical to his brother, to himself, except that it _is_ Jeremiah. A smiling and laughing Jeremiah. The ‘Jeremiah’ that he knows has always been a stoic bastard, having a voice of reason for every fucking thing, but this guy… Jerome couldn’t believe his eyes. He’s never seen his brother so relaxed and free from his harbored anxiety. The ‘Jeremiah’ in the dessert parlour seems like an utterly different human being, as if he’s just a normal young adult venturing through a youthful life with no past, and a complete stranger. And he’s with a boy, but Jerome realizes that it’s not just any boy. It’s Bruce Wayne. ****  
** **

The sides of his lips quirk into a smile. Undoubtedly, life throughout the past few years haven’t been the easiest for his brother, but Jerome’s glad that he’s found his happiness at long last. Truly, he couldn’t have been more relieved about that. Jerome watches as Jeremiah laughs again, shaking his head to himself as Bruce converses animatedly at the other end of the table. Then, his smile falters and vanishes, as he realizes that he had no part in making that happen, having done _absolutely_ nothing, despite making it his own responsibility to do what Bruce Wayne has managed to do for his brother. Jerome had, instead, cause more pain, and more hatred directed towards himself.  ****  
** **

Jerome bites the inside of his cheeks as he watches attentively at the way Jeremiah responds to Bruce’s words. He’s never spoken to Jerome in this manner before. He’s never laughed this whole-heartedly at his jokes before. He’s never been this happy with Jerome before. ****  
** **

As Tabitha exits the parlour and climbs into their vehicle, Greenwood tilts his head at the brown bag in her hands. “Let me guess, you only bought food for yourself,“ he states matter-of-factly. Tabitha simply smiles at his direction as she starts the engine.  ****  
** **

Jerome couldn’t bare to look away, not even after his brother has disappeared from his view.

****

~~~~

****

“That can’t be true,” Bruce blurts out, struggling as he battles his own fits of laughter. ****  
** **

“Believe me, it is,” Jeremiah laughs along, eyes fixated only on the boy’s beautiful smile, and wondering how someone, or anyone, in fact, could be so effortlessly adorable and hot at the same time. ****  
** **

“What happened next?” ****  
** **

“We made a run for it,” Jeremiah says, bringing a spoonful of raspberry sorbet into his mouth, “Despite making it out alive, you should’ve seen Jerome’s face. I’ve never seen him more upset over something so trivial.” ****  
** **

Bruce snorts. “He really wanted that llama.” ****  
** **

“He did,” Jeremiah nods animatedly, whilst simultaneously coming up with a random conclusion that this particular dessert parlour definitely serves the _best_ raspberry sorbet that he’s ever tasted in his life. He solemnly swears it, but in reality, there’s (really) no dissimilarity in comparison to the other raspberry sorbets in Gotham City. Jeremiah simply perceives it to be better because of his superbly splendid mood, having been blessed with the lovely company of one particular boy that he so fancies. As if falling into a developing habit of gazing superfluously into each other’s eyes, the two boys inadvertently maintain eye contact for a few seconds, maybe four, maybe five, before a grin innately spreads across Bruce’s face as he bashfully darts his eyes away.  ****  
** **

“You’re so different from your brother,” the boy speaks softly, poking unsurely at his chocolate sundae, as if deep in thought. ****  
** **

Jeremiah smiles. “You clearly have something on your mind, Bruce. Would you like to share?” ****  
** **

It takes a few seconds, but Bruce eventually looks up, eyes meeting his as he speaks. “I have a confession to make,” he says, “When I first saw Jerome in the club, I thought that you’d behave in the exact same way as he would.” ****  
** **

With that, Jeremiah rolls his eyes. “Tell me something I haven’t heard of,” he retorts sarcastically and Bruce snorts with laughter again, “You can do better than that, Bruce.” ****  
** **

“Okay, well, um, have people told you that you’re a complete one-eighty from your brother after they’ve had the chance to get to know the real you?” ****  
** **

With that, Jeremiah fake-sighs dramatically and tilts his head in response. “Yes.” ****  
** **

“Right,” Bruce nods, biting at his lower lip to suppress an escaping giggle, “Then, I’ll say no more.” ****  
** **

Time freezes, and so does the redhead in his seat. Jeremiah’s eyelids flutter at the alluring view of Bruce’s glistening pink lips reddening from the pressure of his teeth. Then, all of a sudden, he’s nervous and overwhelmed with an unexpected wave of curiosity. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Jeremiah softly clears his throat, “What else do you think of me, Bruce?” ****  
** **

Bruce’s eyes dart towards him, and Jeremiah awkwardly brings another scoop of sorbet into his mouth, savoring the sourness on his tongue as he patiently waits for an answer.  ****  
** **

“Um,” Bruce says, clearly flustered. ****  
** **

Jeremiah’s blood suddenly runs cold. “I-I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he blurts, “It was just a casual question. I didn’t mean anything by it.” ****  
** **

“Oh,” Bruce breathes out as he looks away, fidgeting abashedly at his tiny plastic spoon, “Um, I think that you’re a good friend, Jeremiah. You have a brilliant mind. Y-You’re always there when I need someone to talk to, and, um, I like spending time with you.” ****  
** **

With that, Jeremiah nods slowly, struggling internally to **_not_ ** leap out of his chair in JOY and cause an unnecessary scene in the parlour. So, instead, he secretly fistbumps himself underneath the table.  ****  
** **

Bruce looks up to meet the other boy’s eyes as his own face heats up with embarrassment. “What about you?” he asks, “What do you think of me?” ****  
** **

Jeremiah gulps anxiously. “I think that you’re a good friend too, Bruce.” He’s doing everything he can to stabilize his own breathing because when has _breathing_ become so goddamn difficult? “Despite the fact that our usual form of communication consists mainly of text messaging and phone calls, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our, um, interactions nevertheless. You’re also always there when I needed someone to talk to, and the things that I’ve said, the stories that I’ve told, I-I’ve never told them to anyone else before. You’re the first.” ****  
** **

Bruce lets out a small laugh that sounds slightly off, and surprisingly sad. “You mean, the first after Ecco?” ****  
** **

Jeremiah’s eyebrows furrow. “N-no, Bruce, Ecco doesn’t know anything about my past. Why would you think that?”

Bruce shrugs, attempting to brush off the growing discomfort in his being. “I mean, considering that you two are together, I thought-” ****  
** **

“ _Together_ ?” Jeremiah cuts him off with panic, “N-no, Bruce, we’re not-” ****  
** **

“ _You’re not together_ ?” Bruce’s back straightens abruptly as he cuts him off this time. ****  
** **

“ _No_ .” It’s Jeremiah’s turn to cut Bruce off, and, truthfully, he didn’t mean for his response to sound so, well, panic-induced, although no one could blame him for being utterly horrified that Bruce would jump to _that_ conclusion. Jeremiah visibly swallows. “She’s just a friend. There’s no way that- Bruce, I-” Closing his eyes shut, Jeremiah exhales through his nose, doing his best to pull himself together. “If you don’t mind me asking, Bruce, what led you to form the assumption that Ecco and I are in a relationship?” ****  
** **

Bruce blinks. “I- Well, the two of you seemed strangely intimate when you brought her to Ivy’s event and I thought… you know.” ****  
** **

With that, Jeremiah releases an incredulous laugh. “Bruce,” Jeremiah breathes out as he leans against the table towards him, enunciating the next few words in the most articulate way possible, praying in his core that the other boy would understand and get the hint. ****  
** **

“ _I’m not interested in Ecco_ .” ****  
** **

It takes a few seconds, but, with that, Bruce eventually nods as he processes the new information. Hence, cue the awkward pause of approximately 4.25 seconds. Jeremiah watches attentively as the boy blinks a few more times before meeting his eyes again. “So, you’re single?” Bruce asks, somewhat unsurely, and Jeremiah nods in response. ****  
** **

Cue another awkward pause. ****  
** **

“Oh,” Bruce finally responds in the only way he knows how.  ****  
** **

Darting his eyes away, fidgeting with his plastic spoon once more, Bruce manages to prevent and stop a tiny smile which threatens to appear on his blushing face, or so he thinks.

****

~ TWO HOURS LATER ~   

****

Pulling up at the Business faculty of Gotham State University, Jeremiah parks his car beside a black Mercedes and scoffs good-naturedly. “Is there anything that you own that’s not black, Bruce?” ****  
** **

“Don’t judge me,” Bruce lets out a laugh as he unbuckles his seatbelt. ****  
** **

“That may be difficult, but I’ll try,” Jeremiah says, turning sideways to face the boy. ****  
** **

“Good,” Bruce flashes a smile in return.  ****  
** **

As if falling into a developed habit of gazing superfluously into each other’s eyes, it’s not until when Bruce realizes that he’s been staring excessively for an extended period of time that he looks away, somehow darting his eyes downward towards Jeremiah’s pink lips instead, and he halts all breathing and cognitive functioning. Jeremiah seems to notice his apparent system breakdown as well, but remains frozen in place. Seconds pass, maybe minutes, maybe hours? Who knows, man. After an unknown duration of time, Bruce breaks away from his gaze, clearing his throat awkwardly as Jeremiah shifts in his seat, also awkwardly. ****  
** **

“Um, thanks for today,” Bruce clears his throat again, “A-Also, thanks for dessert, even though I still think that I should’ve paid for that.” ****  
** **

“I-It’s fine, Bruce,” Jeremiah breathes out, attempting to regain his composure and laughing to reduce the tension in the car, “Considering that the price range is almost the same, I’d say that paying for dessert seems like a fair trade, even though I’d still prefer it if you’ve let me pay for lunch as well.” ****  
** **

“If you’ve paid for both lunch and dessert, how is that fair to you?” ****  
** **

Jeremiah shrugs. “It seems fair to me,” he says softly, “As long as you’re having a good time, I’ll pay for your dinner too.” Bruce jerks his head at his direction, and Jeremiah slowly turns to meet his gaze. Did he say too much? ****  
** **

Smiling again, Bruce shakes his head to himself and scoffs good-naturedly. “If you say so,” he shrugs casually before opening the door and climbing out of the Prius. Peering over the roof to look at Jeremiah, Bruce adds, “You know, your Prius is black too. Perhaps you should keep your judgement to yourself?” ****  
** **

“That’s different, Bruce,” Jeremiah responds jokingly, “At least the clothes in my wardrobe can be categorized into a range of multiple colors rather than being limited to just the spectrum of a singular color that is black.” ****  
** **

Bruce widens his eyes comically. “Wow,” he exclaims, “That was uncalled for.” ****  
** **

Jeremiah chuckles. ****  
** **

Making their way to Bruce’s car, it’s strange that Bruce isn’t bothered by the lack of space between them. Here they are, taking their time to stroll a few feet towards the driver’s seat, bumping shoulders throughout the way. When Bruce unlocks his vehicle, Jeremiah naturally reaches for the door handle out of chivalry, not realizing just how close their faces are and how Bruce has stopped breathing the moment Jeremiah leans in.  ****  
** **

“Drive safe,” Jeremiah says with a smile, turning to face Bruce and only now realizing the real distance that separates the both of their faces, and of their bodies. Despite the fact that his code of morality is telling him to step back to give the boy some space, Jeremiah realizes that he doesn’t want to. Instead, he lets his eyes fall upon the sight of Bruce’s pretty pink lips, involuntarily biting nervously at his own, and when Bruce begins to mirror his actions, Jeremiah couldn’t hold himself back for any longer and leans in, closing the distance that separates their faces when, suddenly, a loud blaring honk startles the both of them and Jeremiah nearly jumps out of his skin. He jerks his head towards the cause of the disturbance, finding a group of students cheering and shouting at them through rolled down windows as they drive by, honking for the last time before disappearing from the parking lot. ****  
** **

“I-I should go,” Bruce says suddenly and Jeremiah’s heart sinks.  ****  
** **

Forcing out a tight smile, Jeremiah nods bashfully as Bruce climbs into his car, turning on the ignition and bringing its engine roaring to life. Once he’s shut the door for Bruce, Jeremiah steps back, turning around to leave before hearing Bruce call out to him once more. ****  
** **

“I had a really great time today.” ****  
** **

“Me too,” Jeremiah says, returning the other boy's warm smile with one of his own, “Do you want to do it again some time?” ****  
** **

“I’d love to.” ****  
** **

Sheepishly, Jeremiah nods. “Great, I-I’m glad to hear that.” ****  
** **

“I’ll call you, alright?” ****  
** **

“Okay,” Jeremiah’s smile widens adorably, “I-I’ll wait for your call.” ****  
** **

“Okay,” Bruce nods shyly, biting at his lower lip before waving him goodbye.  ****  
** **

Hence, that marks the end of what could possibly be considered as the two boys’ first date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aloha! 
> 
> I hope you guys like this one! As always, let me know what you guys think about the chapter via the comments or just leave a kudo! Thanks again for reading, you guys!
> 
> Have a great day! :D


	10. Chapter 10

_A loud anguished scream ripped through his burning throat as Jerome thrashed violently, fingernails scratching maliciously at the callous hands pinning him against the kitchen floor, and as the putrid fingers around his neck squeezed the air out of the seven-year-old, Jerome_ ’ _s eyes rolled to the back of his skull, blacking out gradually with each suffocating second._ ****  
** **

The sound of a metal chair scraping against the floor echoes through a vacant warehouse.  ****  
** **

_“Listen to me, you ungrateful cunt! Stop scratchi-You’re hurting me! You’re fucking hurting me! Oh, I wished I’d never fucking had you! If I knew how much of a little shit you were going to be, I would’ve stabbed you a million fucking times even if it fucking kills me!”_ ****  
** **

“You have until the count of three to tell me where the drugs are.”  ****  
** **

His voice, cold. As the knife twirls around and in between his fingers, the fluidity of its motion is almost mesmerizing, and Jerome’s face is unsmiling, empty, and void. A blank slate. ****  
** **

_“I HATE YOU!” his mother screamed in his face, his head banging against the kitchen floor as she violently shakes his smaller frame, “DO YOU HEAR ME? I FUCKING HATE YOU!“_ ****  
** **

An agonizing scream tears through the otherwise quiet warehouse as Jerome viciously sinks the knife in for the last time, burying the blade deep inside his left shoulder, and he lowers his head to meet the thief’s gaze, ignoring the wetness of blood that coats his hand as he gently places it onto the bleeding shoulder. ****  
** **

“Where did you keep ’em?” ****  
** **

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I swear.“ ****  
** **

_“Jerome? Are you okay?”_ ****  
** **

“You’re gonna need to do better than that,” Jerome seethes through gritted teeth as an unusual rage breaks through the barriers of his mind, and he rips the knife out with a burning intention to hurt, blood gushing out onto skin and fabric as the sharp blade slices through muscle and flesh. ****  
** **

_“I’m sorry,” Jeremiah whimpered, “Please don’t be mad at me.”_ ****  
** **

_“I’m n-not,” Jerome choked out through sobs, “But please don’t s-steal from Uncle Zack again. I’ll do it, okay? I’m better at it. Just tell me w-when you’re hungry next time.”_ ****  
** **

Greenwood, with his hands clasped together, looks up from his seat, a slight concern clouding his eyes as Jerome stalks towards a second man tied to a metal chair, blood dripping onto the cement floor from the blade in his hand.  ****  
** **

“Please, I didn’t do it!” This one begs, eyes darting back and forth fearfully at his friend now slumped against the metal chair with a wide open gash through his bare throat, the front of his shirt soaked in thick warm blood. “It wasn’t me!”  ****  
** **

_“Thanks for not ratting me out,” Jeremiah sniffles, clutching onto his shirt as Jerome wraps a protective arm over him._ ****  
** **

_“You’re my brother, Miah. I’ll always protect you, and I’ll always make sure that you’re happy.”_ ****  
** **

Wailing, the man writhes in agony as the knife impales his hand, its sharp blade tugging and pulling at the flesh of his palms with every spasm of pain. Jerome grasps onto the collar of his shirt, pounding his fist furiously at the face out of blind rage, splitting open the fragile skin surrounding his cheekbones, and eyes. Jerome doesn’t spare him any questions, instead he punches, and punches, and punches until the skin surrounding his own knuckles tears from the unabating abuse, and bleeds. ****  
** **

It’s supposed to be him. It’s always been. Not Bruce Wayne.  ****  
** **

_“Always?” Jeremiah asked, rubbing tears from his eyes with the back of his hand._ ****  
** **

_“Of course,” Jerome nodded, weakly._ Not Bruce Wayne. _“Because families stick together.”_ ****  
** **

“Jerome, that’s enough!” Tabitha yells, and Jerome immediately snaps out of his violent assault, sore and bloody knuckles frozen in the air. “We need this one alive.” The thief’s face, now barely recognizable, is bludgeoned and bloody from a broken nose and split lips, his eyes completely swollen shut. As the rage burning in his core progressively fades after Tabitha’s unexpected interruption, the tightened grip in his fist loosens and Jerome lets the hand fall to his side before storming out of the building in desperate need for fresh air.  ****  
** **

Tabitha draws in a deep breath. “Stay here, I’ll go check on him.” ****  
** **

“That kid just went through an entire session without laughing once,” Greenwood says to Aaron, “Is it just me or is that fucking unsettling?” ****  
** **

Outside, Jerome sits alone on a wooden crate, shoulders slumped with defeat as exhaustion seeps into his core, replacing every prior ounce of rage that he had felt, and a tired sigh escapes from his throat. He should’ve been Jeremiah’s savior, not the millionaire brat, but no matter what he does or says, Jerome’s efforts could never amount to what Bruce Wayne is capable of providing for his brother; the illusion of a youthful life with no past. Understandably, with Wayne, nothing could remind Jeremiah of _everything_ that’s wrong in his life, and it certainly wouldn’t jog any memories of Jerome’s countless failures either. As he sniffles, Jerome naturally rubs the back of his hand against his nose, pausing abruptly at the sight of dried blood coating his palm. Everything that he’s done, he did it for his brother, but it’s never enough, is it? To this day, Jerome’s never felt more alone in his life, and it sucks. He misses Jeremiah. ****  
** **

“How’re you holding up?” ****  
** **

Jerome releases a weak chuckle as he hears footsteps approaching. “Never better. Just peachy.“ ****  
** **

Leaning against the wooden crate, Tabitha stares straight ahead at their parked vehicle outside the warehouse. “I think you scared Greenwood.“  ****  
** **

“Did the cannibal piss his pants?” ****  
** **

“No.” ****  
** **

“Aw, shucks,” Jerome jokes lightly, prompting a small smile to appear on Tabitha’s face. A rare occurrence. “I promise I’ll try harder next time,” he says, lips pulling apart into a cheshire grin, “I know you’re here to tell me something, Tabs. Come on, spit it out.” ****  
** **

“I saw your brother earlier, and I’m sure you did too,” she states nonchalantly, “Bruce Wayne, huh? Your brother sure knows how to pick them.” ****  
** **

“What are you getting at?” Jerome asks, his grin disappearing. ****  
** **

“As you know, my brother is very keen on collaborating with Thomas Wayne to secure his position as Gotham’s next mayor,” says Tabitha, “As much as you hate Bruce Wayne’s guts, I think he’d appreciate it if you’re able to persuade the Waynes to join him in this race.” ****  
** **

Jerome blinks. “First of all, I don’t hate the brat’s guts.” ****  
** **

“Oh, please,” Tabitha scoffs, “I saw the look on your face when I got in the car. You looked like a sad little puppy that got kicked in the face. You’re jealous. I’m betting on a limb that things aren’t good with your brother and now that he’s run off to somebody else, you’re reduced to being nothing but a watching bystander. I told you that lying and bringing him along would fuck everything up, Jerome, and I was right. You failed, and now we’ve lost close to a hundred grand worth of goods-” ****  
** **

“Hey, you can’t pin that one on me,” he cuts her off. ****  
** **

“Tell me, would this have happened if Butch Gilzean is dead?” she asks calmly, her voice low, “I’m offering you a chance to get back on my brother’s good graces, or do you need a little bit more incentive in your case? A reward, perhaps, for after Theo becomes mayor?” ****  
** **

Jerome turns to her direction, silent as he considers. ****  
** **

“So, what’s it going to be?” Tabitha asks, “You know I’ll do whatever I can to help you.” ****  
** **

“I can’t think of anything just yet,” Jerome says hesitantly as he thinks of Jeremiah, “But could you keep that offer open for me? I’ll be sure to let you know if anything pops up.” ****  
** **

“Sure,” Tabitha nods with a small smile, straightening her back as she prepares to leave, “Now, cheer up, kid. I can’t believe that I’m saying this, but I think I like you better when you act like a homicidal asshole.” ****  
** **

 

~~~~ ****  
** **

 

Jeremiah is restless. It’s safe to say that his brief phone call with Bruce had been rather fruitless, being that neither of them had addressed the fact that _something_ had happened at the university parking lot, and Jeremiah cusses silently at himself for getting tongue tied when he’d wanted to. So, for the rest of the night, he lies wide awake in bed, unable to shake off the terrifying feeling of Bruce possibly regretting _everything_ and that he’d rather be _just_ friends with Jeremiah.  ****  
** **

By morning, Jeremiah climbs out of bed and, as always, he brews his coffee before settling comfortably in the living room with a mug in one hand and a book in the other. It’s far too early to do anything else, so Jeremiah opts to catch up on some reading instead, and as he flips to his fifth page, a rattling of keys sounds from the front door and Jerome walks in holding up a brown bag. ****  
** **

Jeremiah stands onto his feet. “I’ve made you some coffee,” he says as he brushes past his brother to retrieve an empty porcelain mug, eyes darting occasionally at Jerome as he quietly fills it up. “Thanks,” Jerome simply responds without a glance, and his heart aches at the indifference in his twin’s voice. Perhaps, he did deserve it, Jeremiah thinks. Swallowing his pride, he holds the mug up to Jerome as a peace offering and begins to apologize.  ****  
** **

“I’m sorry,“ Jeremiah utters, and immediately, Jerome jerks his head towards him in outright disbelief, “I’m sorry for acting like a jerk whe-” ****  
** **

“Wait!” The other twin suddenly exclaims out loud in shock and confusion (well, actually, mostly confusion). “The fuck are you apologizing for? If anything, it should be me, you dumbass.” ****  
** **

Something tugs at the side of his lips and Jeremiah smiles. “So, you’re not mad at me?” ****  
** **

With that, Jerome’s face scrunches up hilariously. “I thought you were mad at _me_ !” ****  
** **

“I was,” Jeremiah admits, “But it’s exhausting.” ****  
** **

Hearing that, Jerome whistles out of relief, shifting his weight anxiously as he shrugs his shoulders. “I thought I’ve got it coming for another week.”  ****  
** **

“An unnecessarily long time,” Jeremiah smiles, similarly with relief, “So, truce?” ****  
** **

“Of course,” Jerome says without hesitation, grinning as he takes the mug from his brother’s hand and gingerly brings it up to his lips for a sip. As always, it tastes delicious. The kid in him giggles out of contentment a moment later, glancing up to meet his brother’s eyes, and then, in an instant, his grin begins to waver. The warmth in Jeremiah’s eyes is no more, and is, instead, replaced with solemn as he stares unmovingly at the torn skin surrounding Jerome’s bruised knuckles, and Jerome himself instinctively covers it up with his free hand. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” ****  
** **

“I’ll get the med kit,” Jeremiah says immediately before disappearing from the kitchen. ****  
** **

With white flowy curtains pulled apart to allow as much sunlight into the living room as possible, Jeremiah holds onto his brother’s hand, applying gentle pressure as he dabs a soft washcloth laced with water and soap onto the torn skin to clean the wound. It’s worse than Jeremiah had expected, and he mindfully handles the cloth, avoiding any accidents of tugging or pulling at the threads of skin still clinging loosely to the abrasions on his knuckles. The sight of missing portions of scraped away flesh turns his blood cold, indicating that, no matter how often Jeremiah has to clean his brother’s wounds, seeing Jerome hurt will never be a sight that he could ever get used to. ****  
** **

“I’m sorry,” Jerome utters suddenly, his apology soft and sincere, and Jeremiah sighs.  ****  
** **

“I know.” ****  
** **

A peaceful pause of a few seconds breezes by before Jerome decides to raise a random question to lighten the mood, because the distraught look on Jeremiah’s face tells him that he needs it. “So, how did your date go?” Jerome asks randomly, his voice a little too cheery for the situation that they’re currently in. ****  
** **

Jeremiah looks up in confusion. “What do you mean?” ****  
** **

“The Wayne kid?” Jerome laughs as his brother’s eyes widen with bewilderment, “I was in the area, _purely_ coincidental, wasn’t following you or anything.” ****  
** **

With that, Jeremiah narrows his eyes suspiciously, but decides to drop it anyways. “It wasn’t a date,” he breathes in, “I don’t think he’d consider it as one.” ****  
** **

“Please elaborate?” ****  
** **

He sighs. “It seems that Bruce is refusing to acknowledge certain things that have happened yesterday and I’m not sure if I should persist in bringing it up,” Jeremiah flashes a smile, but a sad one, to Jerome’s surprise. ****  
** **

“What happened yesterday?” Jerome asks further, with concern, but Jeremiah simply shakes his head in silence, applying a layer of neosporin onto the wound before gently resting his brother’s hand onto the couch.  ****  
** **

“Nothing happened,” Jeremiah says, clearing his throat, “As usual, be careful with your hand, don’t punch anyone for the time being, and definitely don’t pick at it when it’s healing. I’m serious, Jerome.” ****  
** **

Biting the inside of his cheeks, Jerome nods as Jeremiah places a loving hand onto the back of his head, pulling him in to touch their foreheads together before leaving him alone on their couch for the time being. Jerome watches as his brother disappears into his bedroom, shoulders slumping visibly with exhaustion. He doesn’t understand which hurts him more; the fact that Jeremiah prefers Bruce Wayne’s company over his, or that the brat had somehow done something to hurt his brother’s feelings, whatever had happened yesterday. Understandably, there _are_ boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed and Jerome respects that, especially when it comes to his brother’s personal relationships, be it romantic or otherwise, but if he _is_ needed some day, Jerome’s there, no matter what. ****  
** **

Howbeit, what’s bothering him most now is not the brat, but Tabitha’s offer, the little incentive for his case on top of getting back on his boss’ good graces. Grimacing, he spares only a moment for consideration before shoving his thoughts to the back of his mind, deciding that there will come another time for more arduous decision-making. As of now, Jerome would rather rest and engross himself in mindless television watching than to outweigh the pros and cons of him actually quitting his job for his brother’s sake.

****

~~~~

****

Palms resting against the table, Jeremiah scours through the blueprints of his self-perpetuating generator for, possibly, any oddities that he could tinker with, flaws that he could fix, or features that he could add on. An ineffective distraction, but it’s the best that Jeremiah could find. It doesn’t make any sense, technically, nothing does at this point, not when Bruce simply chooses to veer off topic whenever Jeremiah raises any questions about them. He can’t shake the feeling that he’d done something wrong, otherwise why would Bruce try so hard to pretend that nothing’s happened?  ****  
** **

He draws out a long sigh, reaching for his phone on the table, and scrolls through the messages from Bruce, the latest one received just thirty minutes ago. It doesn’t make any sense. With hesitant fingers, Jeremiah dials his number, swallowing anxiously as he brings the device to his ear. ****  
** **

“Hello?” ****  
** **

“Bruce?” ****  
** **

There’s a pause. “Hey, Jeremiah.” ****  
** **

“I’m sorry for bothering,” he says, “Are you in class?” ****  
** **

“Yes, but it’s almost done,” Bruce responds, “Why did you call? Is everything alright?” ****  
** **

“Bruce, I’d like to see you,” Jeremiah gulps nervously, “There’s something that I need to ask and I’d like to do it in person, if that’s alright with you.” ****  
** **

Another pause. “Sure.”

****

~~~~

****

“What does he want?” ****  
** **

“He wants to talk,” Bruce sighs, dropping his pen carelessly into his unzipped bag as he follows his friend out of the auditorium, crafting his next steps carefully and articulately in his head. ****  
** **

“You can’t tell him that you know,” Selina keeps her voice low as they cut through a crowd of students outside, “If he finds out, then-” ****  
** **

“He won’t,” Bruce cuts her off instantly, “At least not from me.”

****

~~~~

****

\- YESTERDAY -

****

It’s ridiculous, Bruce thinks as he captures a glimpse of his own reflection in one of the mirrors in his living room. Surely, if Alfred happens to see him now, he’d tell him the same thing, because the blissful grin plastered on his face right now looks absolutely, if not incredibly, _ridiculous_ .  ****  
** **

In the kitchen, Martha busies herself with preparations for dinner as Alfred lends a helping hand to set up some plates and cutlery onto the dining table. “Good evening,” Bruce greets with the broad grin still plastered on his face, and upon noticing the young master’s arrival, Alfred simply couldn’t resist laughing at the sight of him. ****  
** **

“Bruce, you’re back!” His mother beams as she lovingly pats at his face with her oven mitt. “Oh, and that smile looks lovely on you. Do wear it more often.” ****  
** **

With a mock-up look of scepticism, Alfred leans over the dining table, eyes squinting hilariously at the boy to get a closer view before slowly shaking his head in disagreement. “Nah,” he simply says, and as Bruce’s mother glares daggers at their insouciant butler, albeit the obvious amusement in her eyes, he almost doubles over with laughter, prompting Bruce to respond with a roll of his eyes. “He looks ridiculous,” Alfred teases. ****  
** **

Setting a steaming plate of ratatouille onto the dining table, Martha hums thoughtfully at the dish as she removes her oven mitts. “That should be it,” she breathes out, retrieving a cookbook from the kitchen counter, eyes darting back and forth, “What do you think, Alfred?” ****  
** **

“The ratatouille looks and smells delicious, ma’am.” ****  
** **

“Why, thank you,” Martha beams again, clapping the cookbook shut, “I’ll let Thomas know that dinner’s ready.” ****  
** **

“It’s alright, Mom, I’ll get him,” Bruce calls over his shoulder, already leaving the kitchen and heading for his father’s study. As usual, his father tends to retreat to his personal corner of the manor after returning home from work, finding repose with some much-needed peace and quiet, and reading from his varying collection of books before joining the family for dinner. Bruce jogs along as he makes his way, because walking normally feels inhibiting at the moment, especially when an unrelenting billow of excitement is coursing through his veins, and there’s the fact that it sparks a little more at every thought of just _one_ particular redhead.  ****  
** **

It’s redonkulous, Bruce concludes, that he can’t seem to think of anything else apart from the other boy’s radiant smile, and those warm eyes meticulously painted with a beautiful shade of green, and _those lips_ . Not that he’s complaining, of course.  ****  
** **

When Bruce arrives outside of his father’s study, he notices, through the cracked open door, that his father is speaking on the phone, his voice hushed. ****  
** **

“Are you sure it’s the right call?” ****  
** **

Silently, Bruce props behind the door as he eavesdrops. ****  
** **

“It’s a dangerous game that you’re playing, Jim,” his father seemingly warns, “These animals threw seven people off a rooftop to send a message. God knows what else they could be capable of.” ****  
** **

“I understand, but there will most definitely be repercussions.” ****  
** **

“Yes, of course.” ****  
** **

“Who?” ****  
** **

“ _Valeska_ ?” ****  
** **

Bruce freezes. ****  
** **

“No, I just wanted to make sure that I heard the name right.”  ****  
** **

“Sure, I’ll see what I can do.” ****  
** **

“You take care, Jim.” ****  
** **

Bruce watches through the narrow space as his father brings up a balled fist, pressing it against his lips as he breathes out harshly with an indisputable concern.

****

~~~~

****

\- TODAY -

****

Bruce waits patiently at a bench prodded up on one of the hilltops in the vast grounds of Gotham State University, facing the faraway reservoir located beside Robinson Park. It’s an outlying secluded wooded area that few students know about or frequent to, one where Selina had discovered out of pure coincidence, and the only appropriate spot that comes into mind when Jeremiah had requested to meet privately.  ****  
** **

Bruce is conflicted, more so than ever. There _has_ to be an explanation as to why Detective Gordon had mentioned the Valeska name during that call. Without concrete evidence, it’s bold to assume that the twins are involved in the heinous murder of seven innocent men, but Bruce couldn’t find a good reason not to. After all, Jerome _does_ work for Galavan, that much is true. The question of whether Jeremiah is involved, however, remains unanswered, and it stirs Bruce’s ongoing internal conflict even more.  ****  
** **

“Hello, Bruce.” ****  
** **

A familiar voice brings the boy onto his feet, and Bruce turns around, nodding with a tight smile forming on his lips. “Hello, Jeremiah.” ****  
** **

The other boy reciprocates with a polite nod of his own. “How are you?” ****  
** **

“I’m good,” Bruce couldn’t resist but he laughs a little, “Is this what you’d wanted to ask in person? Because you wanted to know if I’m doing well?” ****  
** **

Jeremiah lets out a nervous laugh. “That’s one of the reasons,” he nods again, shoulders tensing, eyes darting around at the trees surrounding them, “This place seems nice. Do you come here often?” ****  
** **

Something tugs at his lips and Bruce smiles. “To answer your question, no, I don’t,” he responds fondly, and it’s something that Bruce usually finds himself unknowingly doing in the presence of the other boy. “Jeremiah, what are we doing here?” ****  
** **

“I’m sorry if all of this seems too sudden,” the redhead says, “But I, um, I’d like to talk about yesterday.” ****  
** **

Bruce’s throat suddenly runs dry. “What about yesterday?”  ****  
** **

The other boy opens his mouth to say something, but nothing forms, and he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, eyes darting anxiously at the green grass surrounding his shoes.  ****  
** **

Bruce swallows nervously, because, deep down, he knows what’s truly bothering Jeremiah, and now he’s beginning to regret agreeing to meet up. “Did you want to talk about what happened before we left?” he asks. ****  
** **

“Well, it’s m-more like what almost happened.” ****  
** **

“Oh…” ****  
** **

The other boy lets out a shaky breath. “Bruce, I… I can’t help but feel that you’re avoiding my asking about… um, could you, please, be honest with me and tell me if there was something that I did wrong?” Jeremiah asks, his eyes pleading, “I’ve been thinking it over, you know, and I thought that you might’ve… Did I overstep, Bruce?” ****  
** **

Silence fills the cold air surrounding the two. ****  
** **

“I understand that I shouldn’t have,” Jeremiah struggles as he fumbles for words, “And I’ll understand if you’d like to return to being just friends, if that’s what you really want.” ****  
** **

Bruce grits his teeth as doubt washes over him, flooding through the barriers of his mind, further affirming that the boy standing in front of him isn’t involved with the murders. It’s impossible. ****  
** **

“I’m truly sorry if I have, in any way, overstepped your boundaries and made you uncomfortable. I just thought...” ****  
** **

Perhaps it’s just Jerome Valeska. It _has_ to be. ****  
** **

“Bruce?” Jeremiah calls out, his attentive eyes now clouded with dejection, “Please say something.” ****  
** **

As tension rises in his shoulders, Bruce searches for a reason to prove to himself that Jeremiah is who he seems to be - a brilliant engineer with a heart of gold - and Bruce finds plenty. “You don’t have to apologize for anything,” he finally says, “It’s not your fault.” ****  
** **

“If that’s the case, then, why do I feel like it is, Bruce?” ****  
** **

Silence, once again. ****  
** **

“You said that it’s not my fault, but you won’t tell me why.”  ****  
** **

Silence. ****  
** **

Jeremiah nods, stepping back with an ache in his heart. “This is all just a huge misunderstanding on my part, isn’t it?” A pained laugh escapes from his throat, prompting Bruce to take a concerned step forward.  ****  
** **

“What do you mean?” ****  
** **

“Maybe it wasn’t obvious before, or maybe it was,” Jeremiah confesses with a trembling voice, “I like you, Bruce. Actually, I-I think I love you, but it... it doesn’t matter. It’s my fault for getting ahead of myself, thinking that you felt the same way for me. I’m sorry, I-I should go. You probably have other things to attend to and I’d hate to be a bother.” He takes a step back. “Again, I-I’m sorry, Bruce.” ****  
** **

Then, it all happens in an instant.  ****  
** **

As Jeremiah turns to leave, Bruce finds himself striding towards him with an urgency in his steps, prodding himself right in front of the other boy, and without a second thought or another moment of hesitation, he presses his own lips against Jeremiah’s, and time stops. His eyelids flutter shut. The softness of Jeremiah’s lips makes him melt on the inside, igniting an inner desire to part his own lips to deepen the kiss, but before Bruce could let it take control over himself, he pulls away abruptly, freezing at the thought of what he’d just done. His eyes dart upwards and Bruce finds himself drowning in green.  ****  
** **

“Jere-”  ****  
** **

Without warning, a hand flies upward to cup his face as Jeremiah brutally crashes their lips together, pushing desperately into Bruce and drawing out every molecule of air from the boy’s lungs. Bruce’s muffled voice morphs into a deep-throated moan, body arching upward as Jeremiah runs his hands down his back. With a sharp inhale of breath, Bruce presses his palms against Jeremiah’s chest, steadying himself when Jeremiah roughly pulls him in by the waist, colliding their bodies together as he deepens their kiss, his own body slowly melting against Jeremiah’s larger frame.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> How was the chapter? *wink wink*  
> As always, let me know about your thoughts in the comments section below or just leave a kudo to show your love!
> 
> Thanks for reading, of course, and have a great splendid day :D


	11. Chapter 11

Out of all the things that he’d rather do, waking up is definitely _not_ one of those things right now. Body dipping into the bed on cool comfortable sheets, simply lying down on his back tremendously eases his aching muscles, courtesy of overworking just a few hours ago, his arm hurting the most. Burying his face into the smooshy pillow, he tosses around in bed, turning away to lie flat on his stomach as he tries to block out the annoying ringtone assaulting his ears. Perhaps, it’s time, at last, to change the blasted thing. The pillow muffles his groans of exasperation. ****  
** **

_‘Mommy Shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo…’_ ****  
** **

Face still buried, Jerome’s arm shoot outwards towards the direction of the demonic song, swiping to accept the incoming call and brings the device up to his ear, all done without once looking up. ****  
** **

“WHAT?!” He yells into his pillow. ****  
** **

“Jerome?” ****  
** **

The redhead lifts his face from the soft cushion in a flash, wincing as he accidentally strains his aching back. “Ecco?” ****  
** **

“Bad time?” ****  
** **

Immediately, Jerome sits himself on the bed, drowsily rubbing the back of his hand against his eyes, and blinking himself awake. “Oh, never,” he answers with an adoring tone, “How can I be of service today, doll face?” ****  
** **

Ecco giggles on the other end of the line. “Why, I was wondering if you two knuckleheads would like to have dinner tonight?” she asks. ****  
** **

“Sounds like a great plan,” Jerome yawns involuntarily, and Ecco gasps into his ear out of a sudden. ****  
** **

“Oh God, were you sleeping?” she asks, “You’re working the night shift again, weren’t you? Sorry.” ****  
** **

“Don’t worry about it,” he chuckles, “So, what do you have in mind? Burgers? Italian? Chinese? Ginger?” A grin spreads across his face as he hears Ecco scoff into the phone. “What, gingers not your type?“ ****  
** **

“I didn’t say that,” Ecco drawls, “You know, if you don’t mind, I could come over and make us dinner.” ****  
** **

Jerome makes a face at the preposterous suggestion, taking offense that she would assume that he’ll let her do that. “Like hell you will,” he says, “Don’t even think about it, missy. You, as our special guest of the highest honor, will be served, and you will dine like the Princess that you are. Let _me_ handle the cooking.” ****  
** **

“Fine then, I’ll help prepare the salad.” ****  
** **

“Milady, you’ll be dining in a house of brutish _men_ ,” Jerome fakes a seriousness in his tone, “Henceforth, salads are off the menu. No exceptions.” ****  
** **

“Well, I’m going to tell you to suck it because I’m making them anyways!” Ecco insists stubbornly, prompting Jerome to laugh out loud at the absurdity of their little conversation, “And please stop with the medieval speeches, Jerome, I’m begging you. It’s only funny the first time.” ****  
** **

“Oh, but you like it,” Jerome says slyly, climbing off the bed to make his way to the kitchen, “I’ll see what I can come up with for dinner. Hey, you’re okay with steak, right?” ****  
** **

“I’ll eat anything that you make,” Ecco says, “Anyways, see you tonight, Jerome! Can’t wait!” ****  
** **

“Toodles,” Jerome sings into the phone, unable to wipe the widening grin from his face. This girl’s just too adorable for her own good, he tells himself. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got in our hands,” Jerome mutters to himself as he opens the refrigerator, and the expression on his face drops six feet to the ground at the sight of merely two bottles of condiments, a packet of leftover chow mein, and no meat whatsoever. “Sheesh,” he rolls his eyes, “Why am I always the one who has to buy the groceries?” ****  
** **

He shuts the refrigerator door.

****

~~~~

****

As a cold wind blows through the woods, caressing the exposed skin of his face and neck, it sends a shiver running down through Jeremiah’s spine. His hands resting against the small of Bruce’s back, hearing nothing but the sounds of lips against lips and heavy breaths. He captures the other boy’s lips with his own, over and over again, and Bruce lets out a small moan as he turns his head sideways, switching angles to deepen their kiss, and then, the damn phone rings in Jeremiah’s pocket. ****  
** **

He pulls back reluctantly, titillated eyes boring into Bruce’s as he catches his breath. “I-I’m sorry,” he mutters before retrieving the device and bringing it up to his ear. ****  
** **

“Hello?” Jeremiah pants into the call, swallowing just a little. ****  
** **

“You know, you should really learn how to buy groceries on your own, Miah.” ****  
** **

“What?” ****  
** **

“I’m just saying,” Jerome drawls in a bored tone, “Maybe we should pick a day, then I could teach you a thing or two about picking out fruits or vegetables or something.” ****  
** **

“Jerome, why are you calling about this?” ****  
** **

“Because I wanted to,” his brother responds nonchalantly, not realizing that Jeremiah is _in the middle of something_ right now, “And also, I missed hearing your voice.” ****  
** **

“We just talked this morning!” ****  
** **

“And what an eternity it has been!” Jerome sighs dramatically, “Oh, how the years have gone by.” ****  
** **

“Jerome, I’ll have to call you back,” he says, darting his eyes to Bruce as he silently mouths his apology.  ****  
** **

“Right. Hey, Ecco’s coming over for dinner tonight!” Jerome blurts out enthusiastically, “Be sure to come home for dinner!” ****  
** **

“Okay, I will, goodbye,” Jeremiah responds hastily, hanging up the call as soon as he hears Jerome’s goodbye, and he returns his focus to Bruce within the next second. “I am _so_ sorry.” ****  
** **

The boy shakes his head, eyes lowered, a shy reserved smile locked on his face. “It’s okay,” he says, voice barely a whisper, and Jeremiah’s breath hitches at the sight of his red swollen lips glistening under the gentle sunlight and the messy hair, courtesy of Jeremiah’s own wandering hands just moments ago. Unable to help himself, Jeremiah pulls the boy’s face towards him as he leans in to capture his lips once more. He sighs into the kiss, wrapping an arm around the smaller boy’s back to bring him closer before Bruce pushes a hand against his chest, pulling away. ****  
** **

Bruce is silent, and time ticks by until the fourth second when Jeremiah says something to break the worrisome silence, and he does so tenderly. ****  
** **

“Bruce?”  ****  
** **

The boy looks up, eyes dazed. “Yes, Jeremiah?” ****  
** **

“Are you alright?” Jeremiah asks, voice riddled with concern, “You’re rather quiet.” ****  
** **

“I was… just thinking.” ****  
** **

“About what?” ****  
** **

The boy shakes his head again. “It’s nothing,” Bruce says quietly, and Jeremiah’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to figure out what’s wrong, not knowing that the conclusion that he jumps to isn’t altogether wrong either. “Don’t worry, Jeremiah,” Bruce says with a tight smile, “You do that too much.” ****  
** **

“I can’t help it,” Jeremiah lets out a small laugh, hoping that it’ll ease the tension he feels radiating from Bruce, “Believe me, I wish I could stop, for once.” ****  
** **

“I can help you,” Bruce whispers back, planting a sudden kiss on his lips, and resting his palm against Jeremiah’s right cheek, “And also, stop apologizing so much. You don’t have to say sorry for everything, Jeremiah.” ****  
** **

“Right, okay, I’m so- I mean, okay. Okay, I understand. Got it.” ****  
** **

It’s ridiculous that the kiss could still catch him off guard, despite having spent the past few heated minutes making out with Bruce and tugging at his hair, but it does, and Jeremiah is flustered. As he nods sheepishly, Bruce’s lips crack into a smile, and then he looks away as he breaks into a laugh.  ****  
** **

“What’s so funny?” Jeremiah asks, his voice adoring as relief washes over him to see the boy laughing, hands clutching onto his torso as Jeremiah naturally pulls him closer. ****  
** **

“You should’ve seen the look on your face,” Bruce says. ****  
** **

“What’s wrong with my face?” Jeremiah asks again, lowering his head to gauge Bruce’s attention, holding onto his arms to get the boy to look at him. ****  
** **

“Nothing.” ****  
** **

“Oh?” Jeremiah laughs, “I find the current state of your reaction rather contradictory, Bruce.”  ****  
** **

“No, it’s not,” Bruce insists, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when Jeremiah jabs a finger at his side, breaking into a fit of laughter as the other boy persists on prodding him for fun, “Jeremiah, no! Jeremiah!” And Jeremiah literally giggles as he ignores him. ****  
** **

Strolling towards the parking lot, Jeremiah throws occasional glances at Bruce as their shoulders brush, and he contemplates reaching his left hand slightly further to where Bruce’s right hand is, wondering what it would feel like to entwine their fingers together as they walk. He reaches, slowly, uncertainly, breathlessly, a little anxiously, and then Bruce is turning to him as he halts to a stop. ****  
** **

“This is my stop,” he tells him, standing by the black Mercedes, and Jeremiah wonders if they’ve somehow teleported because he swears that they weren’t _this_ close to the parking lot before. ****  
** **

“Right. Oh, wait a minute.”  ****  
** **

Noticing that the boy’s hair is still in slight disarray, Jeremiah reaches up to run his fingers through it, his mission focussed to smoothen the few stubborn strands of hair back into place, flashing a warm smile when he sees Bruce watching him.  ****  
** **

“Okay, now you’re good to go,” Jeremiah says, nodding reassuringly once he’s done. ****  
** **

“Thanks,” Bruce smiles, nodding shyly with appreciation. ****  
** **

“Don’t mention it.” ****  
** **

Bruce nods again, unsure of what to do next. ****  
** **

Attempting to break the silence between them, Jeremiah softly clears his throat, biting at his lower lip before he speaks, “Would you, um, like to… do _that_ again, some time?” ****  
** **

Bruce smiles as an overwhelming warmth fills his heart. “Yes,” he says, without hesitation this time, “I’d like that.”

****

~~~~

****

Whistling out of boredom, Selina Kyle browses aimlessly through the endless bottles of maple syrup on the shelves as she patiently follows Ivy around, who is busy shopping for groceries to restock the kitchen in her cafe. Together, they stroll through the market, looking at things that Selina wouldn’t normally look at, because, in actual fact, Selina Kyle doesn’t cook. The pots and pans in her kitchen are merely house decor props, strictly for exhibition only. It’s far too much hassle to prepare a proper meal when she could _buy_ one. Oh, and the cleaning afterwards! Truly, she despises it more than the notion of cooking itself. ****  
** **

“Here,” Ivy says, holding up a bag of apples in front of Selina’s face, “This is for your lazy ass.” ****  
** **

“Ha-ha,” Selina pushes the bag away, “Keep them for yourself. I have apples at home.” ****  
** **

“Go figure,” Ivy tilts her head curiously, returning the bag of apples to its original spot, “How’s school, by the way? We’ve barely talked about your education and, frankly, I’m a little worried.” ****  
** **

“What’s there to be worried about?” Selina asks, “It’s just business school.” ****  
** **

“So, I assume that you’re taking it easy.” ****  
** **

“Yeah, pretty much,” Selina shrugs casually, pausing en route as Ivy inspects some kiwis. ****  
** **

“You know, Sister Judith called me the other day,” Ivy says out of nowhere, “She’s hosting a barbeque at the orphanage for an alumni gathering event of some sort. Care to join?” ****  
** **

Selina jerks her head aside in surprise, arching an eyebrow as she cautiously processes the information. “Why would she invite me? Did she forget why she kicked me out in the first place?” ****  
** **

“Well, she didn’t exactly mention your name,” Ivy shrugs, “I was just thinking of bringing you along as a plus one. You know, everyone will be there and it’d be nice to catch up with some of them, don’t you think?” ****  
** **

“No, thank you,” Selina sneers. ****  
** **

“Listen, it’s not a bad idea to right some wrongs from your past, especially when it’s not your fault to begin with, and take this opportunity to set things straight with Sister Judith.” ****  
** **

“I’d rather not waste my time.” ****  
** **

“Stubborn as always,” Ivy mutters under her breath, and Selina rolls her eyes, fingers running along items within her reach. Sister Judith, that old hag. If it wasn’t for her, she wouldn’t have spent two years living on the streets of Gotham, forced to scavenge for food from filthy dumpsters behind restaurants, sleeping under boxes in run-down alleys, and never being able to let her guard down for the sake of her own safety against the monsters that roam the city. It was hell. ****  
** **

Granted, Selina had done things, specifically, to spite the abhorrent caretaker; stealing, destroying and vandalizing her properties because the hideous old witch deserved it. 

Selina remembers everything like it was yesterday.  ****  
** **

All those times when the elder woman would yell atrocities over the most trivial matters, shoving at her fragile body and slapping her around as a pathetic excuse to vent her own pent-up frustrations, force-feeding her when she had refused to eat… Those memories are, unfortunately, seared into her brain forever, much like being branded with a burning iron, making forgetting impossible. Although Selina never did figure out the witch’s spur for behaving in such violent ways towards her, but she could guess, and the reason becomes more apparent with each time that Selina looks into the mirror as she grows up. ****  
** **

Albeit, if it wasn’t for this old hag, Selina wouldn’t have met Bruce Wayne when he’d bumped into her while playing hide and seek with his friends at Robinson Park. She was fourteen. Both Thomas and Martha Wayne had not only offered her food and shelter, but more importantly, a long-lasting home, taking Selina in out of the kindness of their hearts and made her a part of their family. She’ll never forget that either.  ****  
** **

Years later, when eighteen-year-old Selina had decided to venture out on her own, she moved into a tiny apartment, one which she could afford to rent at the time while she was working at a bookstore in the heart of the city. The Waynes’ had generously offered to gift her a studio apartment, to which Selina had politely declined, because it didn’t feel right to accept. Independence was her priority, always has been, and she didn’t wish to spend another dime of the Waynes, because they’ve simply done too much for her, and sometimes, Selina knows not of how to repay their everlasting generosity. Occasionally, she would return to the manor, bringing souvenirs as she visits the Waynes and, of course, Alfred, who’d been nothing but kind to her during the years she’d lived under the same roof.  ****  
** **

Truthfully, Selina had never met anyone who is more compassionate and charitable than the Waynes, who had shown her, time and time again, that even the smallest act of kindness could leave a tremendous impact on someone’s life. She owes everything to this family, and she’ll do anything for them in return without question, whatever it may be. ****  
** **

“I’m just saying.” ****  
** **

Selina perks up at the strangely familiar voice, stopping dead in her tracks as she realizes to whom it belongs to. ****  
** **

“Maybe we should pick a day, then I could teach you a thing or two about picking out fruits or vegetables or something.” ****  
** **

Standing merely ten feet away, Jerome Valeska inspects the cabbage in his hand from top to bottom, casually tossing it into the air and then catching it as if it’s a substitute soccer ball.  ****  
** **

“And also, I missed hearing your voice.” ****  
** **

Hurriedly, Selina blurts out to Ivy, “I think I just saw a friend. Do you mind if I go say hi?” ****  
** **

“Sure, go ahead,” Ivy nods distractedly as she attempts to pick out the best bok choy of the lot. ****  
** **

Jerome Valeska. They had first met at the club when the ownership had newly been transferred to Bruce, and Selina, being the ultimate best friend, agreed to be his eyes on the place, reporting to him of any improprieties happening within the establishment. Initially, Jerome had seemed like a pretty nice guy. He was funny, charming and all-around decent, until he was caught inconspicuously passing a small bag of unknown contents to a group of young adults who disappeared from the club soon after. Selina had caught them snorting a form of white powder that came with the bag. That’s when she called Bruce. Together, they scanned through recorded footage, attempting to catch Jerome Valeska in the act, but to no avail. He’s good. The crook had expertly chose crowded spots to operate in, making it difficult to decipher whatever’s going on in their footage.  ****  
** **

So, one night, Bruce had decided to act, approaching Jerome as a potential buyer only to find him, unfortunately, too drunk to function, and that’s when he’d met Jeremiah Valeska instead. ****  
** **

“Okay, bye,” Jerome drawls in a bored tone, and Selina readies herself, attempting to initiate a friendly conversation with the target on sight. ****  
** **

“Hey, Jerome!” ****  
** **

The redhead spins around in a flash. “Selina Kyle!” He beams at her, “What the hell are you doing here?” ****  
** **

“I could ask you the same question,” Selina grins, tip-toeing as she visibly peers into his cart, “Never took you for a guy who does the groceries.” ****  
** **

“Yeah, well, somebody has to in _my_ house,” Jerome laughs with ease, “It’s been too long since we’ve met, Kitty Kat. How’ve you been?” ****  
** **

“Great,” Selina fakes a genuine laugh, “Say, I haven’t seen you in the club for a while. Where’ve you been?” ****  
** **

“Oh, here and there around the city,” Jerome says, “Been a little too busy for clubbing lately. I’m certainly hoping that you don’t miss me too much, Selina.” ****  
** **

“It’s hard not to,” she fake-sighs and shrugs casually, voice sounding slightly disappointed for effect, “The usual crowd just doesn’t feel the same anymore without you in it.” ****  
** **

“Oh, now you’re just flattering me,” Jerome chuckles, “But please, continue.” ****  
** **

A giggle escapes from Selina’s throat. “Maybe next time. Anyways, why are you buying groceries in this market in particular? Do you live around here?” ****  
** **

“Meh, somewhere nearby,” Jerome shrugs, “Do you?” ****  
** **

“No, but my friend does. You know, wouldn’t it be pretty cool if you two were actually neighbors?” ****  
** **

“Shit, it would be,” Jerome says, eyes twinkling as his grin widens. ****  
** **

“For sure, dude!” Selina nods enthusiastically, “So, where do you live?” ****  
** **

Jerome chuckles again. “A few blocks from here.”  ****  
** **

“Right,” Selina breathes out, unsure if it’d be wise to press on, knowing that Jerome is intentionally being vague about the location of his home. Perhaps, she’ll leave it to Bruce to find out. ****  
** **

“Hey, I hate to be a killjoy,” Jerome says suddenly, “But I’ve got dinner to make.” ****  
** **

“Of course,” Selina smiles, “It’s nice seeing you again, Jerome.” ****  
** **

“And it’s nice seeing you, Selina.” Nodding politely, Jerome flashes her a charming smile before pushing his cart away, disappearing as he turns into one of the nearby isles, and Selina’s smile vanishes.  ****  
** **

Carefully crafting her next steps, she contemplates if it’d be wise to stalk him now to find out where he lives, because there’s no telling how long Bruce would take to obtain that information from Jeremiah Valeska. She frowns, not at the complications arose from the current situation with Jerome, but Bruce. To her dismay, that fool has been distracted more so than ever from the plan, and Selina reckons that it’s bound to worsen.  ****  
** **

Jeremiah Valeska is a bad influence, and Bruce needs to see that.

****

~~~~

****

Once Jerome gets home, he drops his bags of groceries onto the kitchen counter before hurrying to his bedroom and jumping into the shower. Ecco is to arrive within the next hour, so it’s crucial for him to be primped and proper before she knocks on his front door, demanding to be allowed in. It’s no secret that Jerome likes the girl. Jeremiah knows it. Hell, even Ecco knows it, though she’s made it crystal clear that her feelings for Jerome are purely platonic, and, deep down, Jerome knows why. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she’s head over heels for his twin brother, because who wouldn’t be? But of course, Jeremiah could never tell, and is blissfully unaware of his friend’s attraction towards him, despite everything that she’s done. Yeah, he’s _that_ blind. ****  
** **

Jerome picks out a comfy red sweater and a pair of dark well-fitting jeans for the occasion.  ****  
** **

Despite the fact that Ecco doesn’t feel the same for him as she does for Jeremiah, it doesn’t bother him, not as much as Bruce Wayne does, anyways. Perhaps it’s because he knows for a fact that Jeremiah’s absolutely one hundred percent _not_ into chicks, which the poor girl isn’t made aware of, and this somehow provides him a sense of security, knowing that Jeremiah wouldn’t just steal her away. It’s fucked up, admittedly, to keep Ecco in the dark, allowing her to continuously fall for Jeremiah, even though he knows that it wouldn’t end well for her, but Jerome lets it be, because he knows for a fact that once Ecco realizes that she’s been pining for unrequited love, she’d leave. ****  
** **

The doorbell rings and a grin spreads across his face. ****  
** **

“What’s up, red?” Ecco beams at him, and Jerome rests his weight against the door, eyes lowering to scan her black and white plaid dress, his grin widening. ****  
** **

“Is that a new dress?” ****  
** **

“Yes!” Ecco giggles, twirling around excitedly for the boy, “I picked it out last weekend! What do you think?” ****  
** **

“Drop dead gorgeous,” Jerome chuckles, stepping aside to welcome her in, “Well, since you’re here early, make yourself at home. I’ll fire up the stove in a bit.” ****  
** **

“Where’s Jeremiah?” ****  
** **

“Lab, I think,” Jerome shrugs, shutting the door, “That’s where he’s normally at.” ****  
** **

“Right,” Ecco hums, plopping onto the couch as she turns on the television, “So, how was your road trip, huh? Was it fun?” ****  
** **

Jerome shrugs casually. “It’s alright,” he says, settling beside her on the couch, “Could’ve been better.” ****  
** **

“Why, what went wrong?” ****  
** **

“Some stuff,” Jerome brushes it off dismissively, “Hey, how’d you like the gift I sent you?” ****  
** **

“Oh, right, the gift,” Ecco glances at him awkwardly, an amused tone in her voice, “You know, Jerome, do let me know the next time you plan to leave gifts on the carpet outside my door.” ****  
** **

“Well, that’ll ruin the surprise,” Jerome says incredulously. ****  
** **

“Yeah, well, I hate to tell you this, but I tripped over it.” ****  
** **

“ _You what?_ ”

Ecco struggles to suppress her giggles. “It was right at my doorstep and I was in a hurry to get to class!” ****  
** **

“There’re chocolates in there!” Jerome gasps in horror, “Please tell me that you _at least_ saved the chocolates.” Without warning, Ecco bursts into laughter, and Jerome gapes, his blood running cold. “Oh, no, you didn’t.” ****  
** **

“Ah, well, the chocolates survived,” Ecco smiles reassuringly, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder, “And they were delicious!” ****  
** **

Rolling his eyes, Jerome playfully swipes the hand away, eliciting an adorable giggle from his friend. “You almost gave me a heart attack, missy.” And she flashes him a cheeky smile.

****

~~~~

****

It’s strange to think that everything seems anew, but it does. ****  
** **

In retrospect, the world seems much brighter than how Jeremiah remembers it to be, colors ostensibly standing out with augmented vibrancy, emanating a sense of hopefulness that is impossible to disregard. A cliché, Jeremiah reflects, that is universal in nature, but with Bruce, it’s more than that. Bruce had pulled him out of a wretched place, bringing him into light, showing him a real chance at living a normal life, and promising that he belongs, no matter his past. Bruce does make his world a brighter place, and Jeremiah couldn’t help but fall a little further in love, if that’s even still possible at this point. ****  
** **

Pulling up outside the apartment, Jeremiah parks at the usual spot behind the fire hydrant, jogging his way upstairs, and, with the silly smile still plastered on his face since leaving the university grounds, Jeremiah pushes open the front door to find his twin brother and their mutual friend preparing dinner for the evening. ****  
** **

“HEY, look who’s back!” Jerome exclaims at the top of his lungs, startling and making poor Ecco jump with a bowl of salad in her hands, and she disgruntledly slaps him across the arm. Jerome chuckles cheekily, muttering his apology out loud. Approaching, Jeremiah peers over his brother’s shoulder, mouth watering as Jerome expertly bastes the juicy steak in his frying pan. The savoury aroma alone makes his stomach growl, and his brother chuckles to himself. “Hungry?” he inquires. ****  
** **

“Starving,” Jeremiah nods, shaking the twin by his shoulders impatiently, “Hurry up.” ****  
** **

“You can’t rush perfection,” Jerome simply states. ****  
** **

Rolling his eyes, the redhead leaves the other redhead in the kitchen as he moves towards the dining area, eyes scanning over an appetizing bowl of vegetables and another of chopped oven-roasted potatoes smothered in cheese. His friend returns with some cutlery in her grasps. “If you’re hungry, you could try some of the salad first!” ****  
** **

“I’d love to,” Jeremiah’s smile widens, glancing at the spoons in Ecco’s hands and waits for her to pass one over to him, only that she doesn’t. Instead, Ecco uses it, scooping a spoonful of salad before bringing it up to his mouth, and Jeremiah freezes.  ****  
** **

She smiles, encouragingly.  ****  
** **

“Ecco, I can-” ****  
** **

“Oh, you’ve got to try it,” Ecco cuts him off, eyes twinkling with adoration, “It’s a new recipe that I found online and it has quinoa, and sunflower seeds, and cranberries! I’ve taste-tested it the day before and it’s _delicious_ . I promise you’ll love it!” ****  
** **

Jeremiah’s eyes soften. Parting his lips, he lowers his head to accept the spoonful into his mouth, and Ecco beams. Returning a broad smile as he chews, Jeremiah glances over at his brother as he straightens his back, praying that Jerome hadn’t been paying close attention to their conversation. ****  
** **

“So, what do you think?” Ecco asks excitedly. ****  
** **

“It’s really good,” Jeremiah says. ****  
** **

“Alright, kids,” Jerome announces out of nowhere, bringing in a plate of steak with one hand and skillfully balancing two on the other, “Dinner is served!”  ****  
** **

As his brother sets down the three plates, Jeremiah settles comfortably into his chair, helping himself to the bowl of cheesy potatoes before him. When Ecco settles by his side, Jeremiah acts out of chivalry, scooping some onto her plate as well. It’s only polite to reciprocate, he reckons, but Jeremiah could feel his brother’s watchful eyes from the opposite end of the table.  ****  
** **

“Oh my God, these potatoes are _so_ good!” Ecco says all of a sudden, and the mild tension between the brothers gradually slips away, or so Jeremiah thinks. ****  
** **

Jerome flashes a broad grin. “I could teach you the recipe if you’d like.” ****  
** **

“Yes, please,” Ecco beams radiantly, “I could come over at anytime after graduation. Just let me know.” ****  
** **

“That free, huh?”  ****  
** **

“I won’t be employed right after anyways,” Ecco says, “I’ve got time.” ****  
** **

Jerome nods thoughtfully, his grin widening. “Well, don’t mind if I do.” ****  
** **

“Don’t encourage him,” Jeremiah jokes, “He might just ask you to pack your things and move into this apartment.” ****  
** **

“That’s actually not a bad idea, broski,” Jerome laughs, “What do you say, Ecco? You in?” ****  
** **

She shrugs. “I’d still prefer to have a place of my own, but I appreciate your offer, red.” ****  
** **

“Well, in case you have a change of mind, my offer still stands.” ****  
** **

“Forever,” Jeremiah chimes in, prompting a sudden giggle from his friend, and he looks up to find Jerome prodding at his steak with a knife before cutting into it.  ****  
** **

It’s no secret that his brother fancies Ecco.  ****  
** **

Jeremiah sighs internally, wishing that he could do something to help Jerome out. Yet, Ecco had, once upon a time, elucidated that she couldn’t reciprocate the feelings that his brother has for her. Jerome had accepted her choice then, but it’s clear that he hasn’t given up, and Jeremiah could only hope that his brother understands that forced happiness isn’t happiness at all.  ****  
** **

Thankfully, as the evening rolls by, their conversations naturally steer into familiar territory, and before long, Jerome reverts to being his cheeky self, the part of him that only his closest are allowed to see. As Jeremiah holds up the half-eaten bowl of salad to his brother’s face, Jerome flinches away, face scrunching up at the apparent rabbit food before him. “No,” he shakes his head. ****  
** **

Ecco laughs out loud. “Try some!” ****  
** **

“But I already did.” ****  
** **

“A bit more,” Jeremiah jerks the bowl at Jerome’s face, and he pushes himself further against his chair like a cornered animal. ****  
** **

“Nah, I’ll pass.” ****  
** **

“Fine, I’ll finish it then,” Ecco says, grabbing the bowl from Jeremiah’s hand. ****  
** **

Slumping with relief, Jerome arches an eyebrow at his brother. “That was a close one.” ****  
** **

“She’s doing it for your own good,” Jeremiah says. ****  
** **

“That, I was,” Ecco chimes in, and Jerome groans childishly, bringing up his wine glass to sip at the orange juice he’d previously poured in for himself. “By the way,” Ecco says, turning to Jeremiah, “I stopped by at your laboratory this afternoon, but John said that you’ve left early. Where’d you go?” ****  
** **

Swallowing one of the last few bites of his steak, Jeremiah says as he sips at the red wine in his own glass, “I was with Bruce.” ****  
** **

“Surprise, surprise,” Jerome chimes in sarcastically, and Jeremiah rolls his eyes at him. ****  
** **

Ecco gasps out loud all of a sudden. “Bruce Wayne?!” ****  
** **

In unison, the twins tilt their heads at her direction, both curious and perplexed.  ****  
** **

“Yes,” Jeremiah furrows his eyebrows at her unexpected reaction to Bruce’s name. ****  
** **

Jerome makes a face. “You don’t have to sound so surprised, doll face,” he says. ****  
** **

“It’s big news!” Ecco exclaims, “Well, not exactly, since they didn’t make it public.” ****  
** **

“Ecco, what are you talking about?” Jeremiah asks. ****  
** **

“I had a friend who had another friend who was there when the Maniax threw those people off the roof,” Ecco tells them, and, in unison, the twins tense up in their seats, “And he saw the first body land right in front of their car! The Waynes! Then, there was an accident, which you’ve probably seen on the news, but what they didn’t report is that Bruce Wayne was involved. The poor kid was practically bleeding all over his head.” ****  
** **

The sound of metal dropping onto porcelain snaps Jeremiah out of his racing thoughts, and he glares daggers across the table as Jerome picks up his fork, settling it onto his plate as Ecco carries on obliviously with the conversation. ****  
** **

“It was a nightmare,” she adds, incognizant to the rising tension among the twins, “And for some reason, the Waynes decided to be hushed about their involvement. That’s weird, isn’t it?” ****  
** **

His fists hurt, chest heaving as he draws in labored breaths.  ****  
** **

Burning with rage, Jeremiah is beyond furious. He grits his teeth painfully, convincing himself that a confrontation would be more than unwise at the moment. As he stares incandescently at his brother, the other gradually shrinks away into his seat in alarm, darting his eyes away to break contact as he slowly downs the entire drink from his glass.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> It's so difficult to get back on track to post before the weekend, but I'm trying! T.T
> 
> As always, I hope you like this chapter! Leave a comment to let me know what you think, or a kudo to show your love!
> 
> Have a great day, you! :D


	12. Chapter 12

Balled fists gripping tightly, his heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer against his ribcage, Jerome grits his teeth, forcing himself to calm the fuck down as his mind races with budding trepidation. Technically, he’s not in the wrong, because who could’ve anticipated that Bruce fucking Wayne would be caught in the middle of _this_ ? No one! Jerome doesn’t even recall seeing that brat anywhere near the scene! Nevertheless, Jerome knows - oh, he _knows_ \- that his brother is not going to let him live this down, because judging from the death stares he’d gotten from Jeremiah throughout dinner, Jerome is as good as dead to his brother for hurting his pretty little bird.  ****  
** **

He despises the fact that Jeremiah could hate him for an outsider - an insignificant cog who had by chance crossed his path at a random point in time - when Jerome and him had practically grew up together, crawled their way through thick and thin as inseparable brothers, and relied on no one else but _each other_ , because they were all they had. And now, things have changed. Jeremiah has found someone else - someone better - and Jerome would never be good enough again. A day will come when Jeremiah inevitably gets sick and tired of everything that Jerome is, and leaves, and the possibility of it realizing puts true fear in his beating heart. ****  
** **

Maintaining some distance in between, Jerome watches as his brother lets Ecco out, noticing the fake smile exhibited on Jeremiah’s face as he patiently waits for the elevator doors to close at the end of the hallway, shutting the door to their apartment as soon as their friend is out of sight. With his back facing Jerome, Jeremiah doesn’t move an inch further after, his stature abnormally still, eerily silent. ****  
** **

“Miah, I can explain,” Jerome starts, and Jeremiah suddenly slams his fist against the wooden door, the staggeringly violent impact rattles the panel against its frame.  
  
“What more do you have to say for yourself, Jerome?”  ****  
** **

Stepping forward, Jerome approaches with caution as he speaks his truth. “It was an accident.” ****  
** **

Jeremiah lets out a surprisingly resentful scoff, and it sends a sharp pang of despair to Jerome’s chest. “That’s one way to put it,” his twin mutters under his breath. ****  
** **

“It’s the truth,” Jerome argues, “I was in the middle of a job and the kid and his parents happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s not my fault that he got in the way.” ****  
** **

“Do you even hear yourself?” Jeremiah seethes, turning around, “Was that all it was for you? A job? Does it not bother you at all that you’ve hurt people?” ****  
** **

Jerome scoffs in disbelief as Jeremiah spits his words at him. His brother, the hypocrite. _People_ . If Jerome isn’t struggling to keep himself from falling off the edge of his mind, he would’ve laughed at the absurdity of his brother’s apparent empathy for others. The truth is that there _is_ no people, only Bruce Wayne. Jerome knows that there are only a few of whom his brother is capable of caring for, and he truly hates the fact that the brat is one of them. ****  
** **

“Don’t pretend to be righteous now, Miah,” Jerome stares at his twin, “You don’t give a rat’s ass about those bastards I threw off the rooftop because all you care about right now is the fact that I hurt poor little Brucie.” ****  
** **

The other twin grits his teeth in response, lips tightly pressed into a thin line.  ****  
** **

“What do you want me to say, huh? That I’m sorry?” Jerome exasperates, “I’m sorry, Miah. Can we please let this go now? I’m tired of us bickering so much lately.” ****  
** **

“What’s the point of apologizing when you don’t mean what you say, Jerome?” ****  
** **

“Miah, please, give me a break, will you?” ****  
** **

“That’s what you always do,” Jeremiah steps forward, striding towards him with heavy feet, “You could apologize endlessly to my face for the longest time and yet, nothing changes because your words are meaningless.” Without warning, he grasps painfully at Jerome’s wrist, pulling it upwards to showcase his bruised knuckles for both to see. “You told me that you were sorry when I was patching you up for this, and countless times before. When will it be your last?” ****  
** **

Discerning the meaning behind his brother’s words, Jerome sighs outwardly. _Not this again._ ****  
** **

“Tell me.” ****  
** **

“Can’t we go back to the part where it’s just about Brucie boy and your protectiveness over him?” ****  
** **

“As much as I hate suggesting this,” Jeremiah seethes, “I’m willing to forgive you for what you’ve done to Bruce if you promise me that you’ll quit.” ****  
** **

“Would you really? See, I sincerely doubt that you can, little bro.” ****  
** **

“Do I have a choice?” Jeremiah breathes out, “I’ll accept that whatever had happened to Bruce was purely accidental, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re the trigger man. He’s hurt because of you.” He steps forward once more, crowding into Jerome’s personal space. “You owe me, Jerome.” ****  
** **

As his words slice through him like knives, Jerome grits his teeth, fists balled with resentment and hurt. His little brother - his _only_ brother - now acts like a complete stranger. “Is this your way of forcing me to quit?” ****  
** **

“Have you not seen the damage that you’ve done?” Jeremiah pleads, “To Bruce? To us?” ****  
** **

“Us?” Jerome grimaces at his brother’s startling choice of words, “ _I held us together!_ ” ****  
** **

“You’re unbelievable,” Jeremiah hisses, turning away from his twin, his entirety boiling with frustration. ****  
** **

“No, you listen to me!” Jerome yells in aggrievance, “We needed the fucking money, and you couldn’t work! WHAT THE FUCK WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?! Join another fucking circus?!” ****  
** **

“That’s not what I-” ****  
** **

“I DID EVERYTHING FOR YOU!” Jerome shouts, enraged, “It didn’t fucking matter what I had to do, but we had nowhere else to go and we needed a roof above our heads! It’s my fucking responsibility to take care of you, and I did everything that I could! I got you that shrink because you asked me to! I put you through school because you asked me to! That’s _damage_ ?!” ****  
** **

“That’s not what I meant, Jerome!” Eyelids fluttering shut, Jeremiah pinches the bridge of his nose, gritting his teeth in aggravation, his lips quivering from the unbearable emotions surging through his veins. Garnering his remaining patience, Jerome waits, wanting to hear what his brother has left to say, and Jeremiah sighs out of exhaustion. ”I just don’t want to see you get hurt, or worse,” he pleads, “It’s not just Bruce that I care for, Jerome. You know that. I’m tired of worrying about whether you’ll return home every time you leave. Whatever that’s happening now, whatever is it that your employer is planning, I have a bad feeling in my gut, Jerome. I can’t help but think that something is going to happen to you, and I can’t… Please, Jay. You _have_ to see that what you’re doing is tearing us apart, and you’ve hurt Bruce too.” ****  
** **

“That’s enough,” Jerome exasperates, stepping back to retreat to his bedroom, having heard enough out of the other twin, knowing that things will _always_ revolve around Bruce Wayne from now on, and he’s slowly losing his brother for good. He doesn’t wish to hear that name again, grasping at the door knob and twisting it, muttering out loud enough for his brother to hear before shutting the door behind him. “Good night, Jeremiah.” ****  
** **

The name hits him like a slap across his face. _Jeremiah_. Hearing Jerome call him by his full name sends a pang of pain and guilt piercing through his chest, and Jeremiah wants nothing more than to hurl something across the living room with all of his might, but he resists the impulsiveness.

****

~~~~

****

Bringing the warm mug to his lips, Bruce carefully sips at his coffee, eyes fixated on the notes he’d written down during his morning class when the cell phone on his desk rings, and he naturally smiles at the name on his screen. ****  
** **

“Hello, Selina,“ he greets. ****  
** **

“Third floor, second apartment to the left, Cameron Street at Upper West Side.“ ****  
** **

Bruce’s eyes twinkle with curiosity, his smile widening. “What’s the address for?” ****  
** **

“The Valeska twins’ humble home,” Selina replies carefreely, a note of smugness in her tone. ****  
** **

Smile faltering instantly, Bruce sits up in his chair, his voice, hushed, “Selina, what did you do?” ****  
** **

“I tailed Jerome, like you asked,” she says. ****  
** **

“Did he see you?” ****  
** **

“No,” Selina responds, taking slight offense as though his question is seemingly belittling, “Wow, Bruce, spare me some credit.” ****  
** **

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, “Just worried for your safety, that’s all.” ****  
** **

“Oh, how sweet of you,” Selina coos, “Anyways, I got the address to their secret lair. What did you get from Jeremiah Valeska?”

Bruce pauses, contemplating if he should tell her the truth, knowing full well that she’d be irritated that he’s got nothing to show, despite having spent much more time with Jeremiah than he does with anybody else. “Not much,” he murmurs culpably. ****  
** **

“Still?” Selina responds as expected, “Bruce, you’ve been talking to the guy twenty-four seven. How is it possible that you haven’t found anything?” ****  
** **

Ducking his head, Bruce sips the coffee from his mug. He’s definitely not sleeping early tonight. “I’m working on it,” he reassures. ****  
** **

“That’s what you told me last time.” ****  
** **

As Bruce slumps against his leather chair, releasing a long-winded sigh, he fidgets with the silver bat-shaped letter opener in his hands, recalling the memory of when Jeremiah had gifted it to him during a very special lunch. The genuineness in the other boy’s eyes and in his actions had evinced him to be a trustworthy friend of good character and heart. Bruce trusts his instincts, and his instincts tell him that Jeremiah is innocent. He _has_ to be.  ****  
** **

Bruce draws in a calming breath. “Listen, Selina, I don’t think that Jeremiah is involved in Theo Galavan’s plans.” ****  
** **

A short pause. “Did he tell you that?” Selina questions. ****  
** **

“No, but-” ****  
** **

“He’s clearly hiding something,” she insists. ****  
** **

"I don’t think that he is,” Bruce states. ****  
** **

“How can you know for sure?” ****  
** **

“Selina, I know.” ****  
** **

“How, Bruce?” ****  
** **

“I trust him, okay?” Bruce answers confidently, and Selina scoffs at the other end of the line. ****  
** **

“You’re in way over your head,” she mutters cynically. ****  
** **

“No, I’m not.” ****  
** **

“Yes, you are!” Selina scolds, “Do you even remember why you’re consorting with Jeremiah Valeska in the first place? _You_ had a plan! _You_ told me that you needed information to help your father and Gordon to stop Galavan, but what have you been doing, Bruce?” ****  
** **

“How could I forget?” Bruce’s fingers wrap tightly around the letter opener, “The plan remains as my priority, Selina. However, circumstances have proven that Jeremiah Valeska is not who we should be investigating.” ****  
** **

“That’s bullshit,” Selina argues, “How can you be so naive?” ****  
** **

“I’m being fair,” Bruce states. ****  
** **

“You’re too distracted to see that he’s playing you like a fiddle, Bruce.” ****  
** **

“That is a bold claim, Selina.” ****  
** **

“Fine then, let’s bet on it,” she suggests, as if it’s a game, “I say that, sooner or later, you’re going to discover that Jeremiah Valeska isn’t who he says he is _and_ he’s been working for Galavan this whole time, along with his brother, Jerome.” ****  
** **

“That’s childish,” Bruce says, “Even for you.” ****  
** **

“It’s just a bet,” Selina mocks him, “You’re not scared, are you, Bruce?” ****  
** **

“Of course not.”

****

~~~~

****

_The repetitive ticking of the clock sounded for hours._ ****  
** **

_Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok._ ****  
** **

_It couldn’t have been hours, could it? Jeremiah darted his heavy eyes to the clock on the opposite wall. When did he get here? How long had he been sitting in a fetal position on the carpeted floor of his bedroom? His back strained, aching with every intake of breath. It was torturous. He heard a faint sound of the apartment’s front door opening and closing before a shuffle of feet approached a short while later. Jeremiah watched as a shadow materialized through the slit underneath his door._ ****  
** **

_“Hey, Miah? Are you in there?“_ ****  
** **

_He didn’t answer._ ****  
** **

_“I got you some ice cream,” Jerome called out, “In case you want to satisfy the sweet tooth, you know?”_ ****  
** **

_Jeremiah tightened his grip around his legs._ ****  
** **

_“Hey, uh, can you let me in?”_ ****  
** **

_His knuckles turned white._ ****  
** **

_“I just need to know that you’re okay.”_ ****  
** **

_He observed the shadow of his brother’s two feet underneath the door, expecting it to vanish into thin air within the next tormenting minute. It was a recurring theme, after all. In his usual days, Jeremiah would be unresponsive, hiding away in his room, dreading the position of being alone with his nightmarish memories and thoughts. Yet, he’d rather suffer on his own than to drag Jerome down with him. It wouldn’t have been fair to Jerome, not after everything that he had done to get Jeremiah out. So, even when his brother would knock relentlessly against his door, Jeremiah wouldn’t have answered, ignoring Jerome to the point where he would give up and simply walk away. He’d done that for the fifth time during the past week._ ****  
** **

_“Miah? Can I come in?”_ ****  
** **

_He wanted Jerome to come in, to wrap his arms around him and tell him that everything’s okay - more than anything in the world - but he also didn’t want Jerome to see him, not in this pathetic state._ ****  
** **

_“Miah?”_ ****  
** **

_His brother’s unabating persistence got the better of him, and Jeremiah bit at his tongue, forcing himself to speak up. These were his first words for the day. “Come in.”_ ****  
** **

_Jeremiah watched anxiously as the door knob twisted, and in walked Jerome, his right eye bruised, lip busted. He had wanted to ask Jerome about his injuries, but he couldn’t find his voice. It was as though he had lost it the day he left the circus. Instead, his eyes followed those injuries as Jerome approached, sitting beside him like he’d used to._ ****  
** **

_“Thanks for keeping the door unlocked,” Jerome flashes him a warm smile, “How are you feeling?”_ ****  
** **

_Jeremiah darted his eyes away, fixating them on his arms, because he didn’t know how to answer._ ****  
** **

_“Got you,” Jerome nodded with understanding, snaking his arm into a plastic bag in his grip and pulled out one of the ice creams that he’d bought for the both of them, “Want one?”_ ****  
** **

_Slowly, Jeremiah shook his head._ ****  
** **

_“Okie dokie,” Jerome said, preparing to stand, “I’ll keep these in the fridge first. Be right back.”_ ****  
** **

_“Stay,” Jeremiah suddenly uttered, catching his brother off guard and Jerome jerked his head towards him, “Please, stay.”_ ****  
** **

_Jerome nodded, his warm smile widening. “Alright,” he said, settling comfortably into a fetal position as he mirrored his little brother, “I’ll stay, Miah.”_ ****  
** **

_“Your face,” Jeremiah darted his eyes towards his twin brother’s bruises and cuts, clearly concerned._ ****  
** **

_“Oh, it’s nothing,” Jerome laughed a little, “Don’t worry about it. You should’ve seen the other guy! The boss told me that I put up a pretty good fight.”_ ****  
** **

_Without a word, Jeremiah released his grip from around his legs, crawling on his knees to a nearby cabinet to retrieve a stowed away first aid kit before returning to his twin. Silently, he opened the box, ignoring the way that Jerome was staring at him as if he was in awe at Jeremiah’s unexpected leap into action. Realizing that he had needed to rinse a washcloth with water and soap, Jeremiah stood on his two feet for the first time that day, hurrying to his bathroom to retrieve the necessities. Soon, he returned with a damp washcloth, settling beside Jerome once more before carefully dabbing the cloth on the cut above his eye._ ****  
** **

_Had it been an eternity? It felt as though it had as Jeremiah helped clean his brother’s wounds, just as he would have before they ran away from the circus in the middle of the night. It could’ve been months since Jeremiah had taken care of Jerome as such. He’d lost track of time. He wasn’t sure._ ****  
** **

_Jerome smiled, and Jeremiah tried to ignore the tears welling up in his brother’s eyes._

****

\----

****

Smoothening the fabric of his cotton shirt, Jeremiah pushes at his glasses, adjusting the plastic frame against the bridge of his nose before stepping away from the mirror, preparing to leave for the day. His shoulders slump with fatigue. It’d been a rough night, a sleepless one, where Jeremiah had spent hours tossing and turning in bed, haunted by the memories of his argument with Jerome. The more he dwells on it, the more his guilt devours him. As Jeremiah swings open his bedroom door to enter the living room, coincidentally, so does Jerome. Taken aback, he freezes, and so does Jerome. A few quiet seconds pass. Then, Jerome moves first, shutting his bedroom door before taking his leave while Jeremiah tags along speechlessly behind him.  ****  
** **

The Valeska twins part ways without uttering a single word to one another as Jerome walks away along the pavement outside the building with his hands digging into the pockets of his jacket, while Jeremiah reluctantly climbs into his vehicle parked by the sidewalk. With a heavy heart, he starts the engine, pulling out of the parking spot and heads towards the university. As his vehicle passes by the other twin, Jeremiah darts his eyes to the rearview mirror to make sure that Jerome is alright, only to find that Jerome is watching him as well as he drives away.  ****  
** **

Jeremiah grits his teeth, turning into the next street, and his brother disappears from view.  ****  
** **

His jaw starts to hurt. His grip tightens impossibly around the steering wheel, knuckles white. It’s fucked. Everything’s _fucked_ . His insides burn with rage as the fortified depths of his mind crumbles under immense stress and overburdening self-loathe, and Jeremiah bites down hard on his lower lip, desiring pain, yearning for punishment, because he deserves it. The delicate skin around his lip breaks, splitting under the unforgiving force of his teeth, but it’s not enough. ****  
** **

It’s never enough. ****  
** **

As the traffic light glows red, Jeremiah stomps on the brakes, lifting the sleeve of his left forearm with trembling fingers, and, without sparing another thought, he sinks his teeth into his flesh, biting down hard enough to puncture through skin, and a muffled anguished whimper escapes Jeremiah’s throat as tears well up in his eyes. He thinks he deserves it, the pain, the torture. ****  
** **

He shouldn’t have forced Jerome like he had. He should’ve known better. ****  
** **

_“He’s hurt because of you.”          “You owe me, Jerome.”_ ****  
** **

Jeremiah didn’t mean to utter those words. _He didn’t_ . Desperation was the culprit, and the guilt-tripping was out of blind impulse. His vision blurs, and tears stream down his cheeks.  ****  
** **

_“I just need to know that you’re okay.”_ ****  
** **

Jeremiah sobs at the memory of his brother’s voice, sniffling as he bites harder into his forearm, tasting iron on his tongue. ****  
** **

_“I’m sorry,” Jerome had uttered, his apology soft and sincere._ ****  
** **

_Jeremiah sighed as he cleaned his brother’s wounds. “I know.”_ ****  
** **

He misses Jerome. He wishes that Jerome is here. He wants Jerome to put a stop to his own patheticness, to wrap his arms around him and tell him that everything’s okay. He would beg for Jerome’s forgiveness, grovel at his feet until Jerome gives it to him. He would do anything. _He needs his brother_ .  ****  
** **

As the traffic light glows green, Jeremiah winces in pain as he pulls his teeth away from torn flesh, his fist balling up at the piercing sting of his self-inflicted injury. Jeremiah wishes to see no one today. He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t want to. With trembling fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, he drives off course, and away from the university. ****  
** **

Jeremiah would rather be alone. 

****

~~~~

****

_“Miah, open the door!”_ ****  
** **

_“Open this fucking door, please!”_ ****  
** **

_The incessant banging against the bathroom door, accompanied by his brother’s voice, were all Jeremiah heard._ ****  
** **

_That’s all he would hear and he was okay with that._ ****  
** **

_“Don’t do anything stupid, for the love of God!”_ ****  
** **

_“MIAH!”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you could probably tell, this story is morphing into something darker and grimmer in comparison to the previous lighter chapters. Initially, I had planned for this, whereby as we discover more about the Valeska twins and their backstory, things would get more fucked up. Gradually. I've previously mentioned in the first chapter under Notes that "angst will follow in future chapters, people are going to die and characters are going to hate themselves" and yes, we're getting to that now. So, if you're uncomfortable with this change, I would like to apologize, and I will understand if you choose to stop reading. This story will be rather depressing in the future as it progresses, because it would revolve around Jerome's descent into madness and Jeremiah's incapability of coping with that. So, yes, it's not going to be a fun read.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking around for so long, and as always, let me know what you think via the comments section, or leave a kudo.
> 
> Have a nice day :)


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

Founded in 1820, the Gotham City Police Department, also known by its initials as the GCPD, is the municipal and primary law enforcement agency of Gotham City, and on the side, a clandestine enabler of drug trafficking, murder, and briberies involving both high and low ranking officers of the law. It’s a long-existing issue looking to be eradicated by newly appointed Commissioner Sarah Essen, who Detective Jim Gordon has the utmost respect for since his first day at the GCPD whilst she was still posted as Captain of the Homicide Unit. It’s long overdue, but the police department would do well with a righteously non-corrupt commissioner for a change.

Striding through the lobby of the establishment, Jim Gordon makes his way through an array of desks and bustling officers, stopping in his tracks when he arrives at his personal space, finding his colleague and fellow detective munching on a glistening sugary donut on one hand, fingers wrapped around his morning cup of joe with the other. Harvey Bullock scans over his face with a set of bored eyes and casually remarks without the slightest twitch of his dry expression, “You look like shit.”

“I can say the same for you,” Gordon arches an inquisitive eyebrow, “No leads?”

“Nada,” Harvey grumbles, “The Valeska kid’s good. I’ll give him that. No fingerprints, no eyewitnesses. This bastard’s driving me up the wall.”

“He’s bound to make mistakes along the way,” Gordon says, “We’ll get him when he does.”

”Yeah, but in the meantime, better butter up, Sunshine.” Changing the subject, Harvey gestures towards the other end of the room. “Commissioner’s looking for you.”

Eyes darting across the room, Jim Gordon notices through glass windows of the commissioner pacing in her office, her cellular device held against her ear. Her eyebrows are furrowed, expression stern, and her lips are pressed into a tight line. It doesn’t seem as though it’s the perfect time for him to barge into her office, but when she notices that he’s arrived for work, Commissioner Essen beckons him over. 

”See you later.”

”Yeah, yeah,” Harvey mutters without sparing a glance, devouring the half-eaten donut by shoving its entirety into his mouth as he scans through information in an inadequately put-together file of Jerome Valeska.

Knocking thrice against the wooden panel, Jim Gordon hears a distinctive voice calling out for him to enter, and he pushes the door open. “Morning, Jim,” Commissioner Essen smiles as she ends her call, folding over a document in her hands before gesturing at an empty seat opposite hers, and Gordon settles in. 

“Good morning, Sarah.“ 

Gordon prays that the tugging strain in his cheek muscles isn’t showing on his smile, but he reckons that it does, because then, the commissioner’s eyebrows arch at the discovery of _something_ on his face and an upward quirk of lips appears on hers. 

“Excuse me for being too blunt, Jim, but you look like crap,” she remarks.

“You’re not the first one who’ve said that today.”

“Let me guess, Harvey?” Sarah asks, to which Gordon answers with a nod, “Well, he’s right. I know that I’ve told you this before, but you can afford to take some time off if you need to, Jim.”

“Thanks, but I can handle it.”

“It’s admirable of you to commit so much to your work, my friend, but don’t let it ruin your life,” she adds, “Spend some quality time at home or go out for a nice dinner with the wife. I’m sure that Harvey, along with the other capable detectives in this building, could take over while you’re gone.”

“I appreciate the concern, Sarah, but you don’t have to worry,” Gordon reassures, clasping his palms together, “We’ve gotten along better at home, you know, made some compromises. I’d even say that we’re off to a good start-over. _Lee understands_. As for delegating the work to the others, well, no one knows the case better than Harvey and I do. With all due respect, Sarah, the delegation would slow down our investigation and we can’t afford that, not when we’re finally getting somewhere.”

“Wait, have you found something?”

“I have,” Gordon nods, a twinkle of hope in his eyes.

“Do tell,” the commissioner straightens in her seat, eyes brightening with interest, “Anything on Jerome Valeska?”

“Not much,” Gordon says, “Other than the fact that the twenty-two-year-old is involved in drug trafficking and a few suspected murders. Valeska also has a twin brother; an engineering student at Gotham State. He was featured in the news not long ago for a generator he created.”

“Yes, I remember reading about him,” Sarah recalls, “Smart kid.”

“That’s all the info that I have on him for now, but more to come,” Gordon reports, “Also, my resources confirmed that there will be another shipment on this Thursday night by Dixon Docks near Chinatown. I’ll have men stationed at the loading bay to intercept at any presented window of opportunity.”

“Great work, Jim,” the commissioner beams with pride and admiration, “That’s brilliant. If the interception is successful, we might have a shot at pinning Galavan down for his crimes and put him behind bars, once and for all.”

“What about Oswald Cobblepot?” Gordon inquires, and the commissioner’s smile falters.

“Unfortunately, he will remain as a liability, but a controllable one, nonetheless,” she sighs, “After all, it’s either one choice or the other, but unlike Theo Galavan, Oswald Cobblepot is far easier to be reasoned with. As much as I despise criminals, let alone working with them, an alliance becomes necessary when the future of Gotham depends on it. I hope you’ll understand, Jim.”

“I do,” Gordon nods, folding his arms against his chest.

“That should be all, for now,” Commissioner Essen smiles again as he stands, preparing to leave, “I look forward to hearing good news at the end of the week, Detective.”

 

~~~~

 

The weight of his forlorn heart sinks to the bottom of the soles of his feet as the black Prius disappears out of sight, his brother along with it. Everything’s fucked and Jerome is powerless. His twin hates him - it’s a fact that he does - and Jerome wonders if he deserves the outright resentment? Judging from the silent treatment that he’s receiving yet again, Jeremiah seems adamant on making both of their lives miserable for a scrawny little teacher’s pet. The absurdity. How irrational. However, surely, he can’t hate him _that_ much. It wouldn’t make an abundance of sense, Jerome tells himself. Surely, there’s a redeemable quality that he sees in Jerome that is worth forgiving him for.

_Surely?_

One can only hope, but life is never fair, Jerome concludes. 

Yawning, he strolls along the pavement, approaching his designated destination with every dragging step. The restless night before, he had spent tossing and turning in bed, his mind replaying the dramatic scenes of that dramatic argument. Jerome sighs, his body and limbs overwhelmed by lassitude. His brother, the dramatic son of a bitch. God knows how long it would be before Jeremiah decides that he’s worth exchanging words with once again.

Parked three lamp posts away along the sidewalk, a black sedan waits, and Jerome saunters towards it. The door swings open. “Good morning, Mr Valeska,” an elderly man greets him, his back resting against black leather seats, “I’m Arthur Penn, here to escort you to your destination.”

“A little too old for an escort, but I’ll bite," Jerome remarks casually, climbing into the seat, “You know, Chinatown is only a couple of streets down and I was up for a morning walk, as I always do every _morning_ instead of _sleeping_.”

“We understand that it’s a little too early for your liking, Mr. Valeska, but we can assure you that it won’t take too much of your time,” the other man flashes a friendly smile, handing him a black baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses, “Gifts from Mr. Cobblepot. He would like for you to wear them to the meeting.”

Curiously, Jerome inspects the items in his hands. “Does Pengy intend to play dress-up at the fish market?”

“Your safety remains to be a priority to Mr. Cobblepot,” says the senior citizen, blatantly ignoring Jerome’s highly important inquiry, “As we’re unable to drive you to your intended doorstep, we’ll be dropping you off at the more secluded entrance of the market. As you know, Mr. Valeska, we can’t afford to arouse any suspicion. Despite the fact that Mr. Cobblepot has full control over Chinatown, it doesn’t stop Theo Galavan or the GCPD to place their narks in the vicinity. I’m sure you understand.”

“So, these ‘fashionable’ props are going to make me invisible, huh?” Jerome questions sarcastically.

“To help you blend in, Mr. Valeska.”

With that, Jerome’s face scrunches with incredulity and scepticism. “You’re fucking kidding, right?” 

 

~~~~

 

Jeremiah’s shaking hand pulls weakly at the handbrake. His head drops, eyes glossing over to his blood-stained sleeve. It hurts.

_"What, a showman like me? I'd rather be on stage making people laugh. Maybe I'll be a comedian, or maybe even put on a magic show! That'll knock the socks off those rich folks."_

_"I don't think you'll get to choose your audience that soon, Jerome."_

_"Haven't you heard? It's go big or go home, Miah! Plus, rich folks equal giant wallets. Soon, I'll be earning tens and thousands per show and we can finally get out of that shoebox of an apartment that we're livin' in."_

_"It's not that small."_

_"But it's not a mansion."_

Pushing the door open, Jeremiah exits the car.

 

~~~~

 

Fists, balled. His shoulders, rigid. An unsettling feeling sets in as the black sedan drives slothily through the streets of Chinatown, an ungovernable terra firma of Gotham City. Prying eyes of onlookers latch onto the vehicle as it travels onward. At this precise moment, everyone in the damned precinct resembles a nark. Jerome grunts crossly, kicking his paranoia aside, knowing that he’s safe behind dark tinted windows. 

Despite living a mere few streets away, Jerome has yet to set foot on these wretched grounds since he’s forbidden, gravely, by both his employer and the inexorable Chinese triads ruling the precinct, of which the two sides have, more often than not, clashed with or without reason on several occasions. Technically, the notorious Chinese gangsters are incapable of getting along with any authority at all in Gotham, not even the GCPD, so the fact that Oswald Cobblepot has managed to secure a position for himself in Chinatown, gaining full support from these triads, boggles his mind. What did he have to offer? On what terms? Jerome may never know.

A whiff of cold air, resembling death, brushes against Jerome’s face as he steps out of the vehicle. The unsettling feeling clutches onto his chest. He may be intimidated, but he doesn’t show it.

“Keep it,” Jerome tosses the unwanted pair of sunglasses onto the elderly man’s lap, carefreely adjusting the baseball cap on his head, “I’m not walking in there looking like a Grade-A douchebag.”

“Remember, the blue door, Mr. Valeska. I’ll be waiting right here,” says Arthur Penn, and he shuts the door.

Shrugging his perturbation from his chest and shoulders, Jerome drags his feet forward through the back alley and steps out onto the bustling streets of Chinatown, hands digging into the pockets of his jacket as he stealthily manoeuvres through crowds, eyes inconspicuously darting around to spot familiar faces. Obviously, meeting up in person is a terrible idea, but, unfortunately, it’s an inescapable obligation that Jerome must fulfill if he’s to receive payment for his work and the sly flightless bird has opted for a briefcase of cash, as if it wouldn’t draw more attention from a foreign redhead lugging the damned thing around through this town. It’s as though Cobblepot _wants_ him to be found out.

The welcome for his arrival at the fish market isn’t a warm one either. Approaching a blue door at a sequestered corner, Jerome is greeted by three towering brutes with brooding faces and distinctively tattooed dragons and phoenixes encircling muscular arms. It’s safe to say that the situation probably wouldn’t have escalated if Jerome had simply acknowledged their extremely overbearing presence, but, of course, he doesn’t. Instead, Jerome ignores said intimidating guards and struts towards the door, expecting the three to clear him a path before a callous hand flies towards his shoulder, fingers digging in and gripping him harshly in place, and the redhead rolls his eyes out of annoyance. How rude.

“你在干嘛?”

Not understanding a single syllable uttered, Jerome leans forward, his eyes squinting with confusion. “ _Huh?_ ” It’s not a form of mockery, of course. He’s _definitely not_ being impolite to the insolent imbecile crumpling a handful of his jacket and shoving him backwards roughly. Jerome doesn’t budge. Rigidly, he stands his ground, face bisected as his lips slowly pull apart into a sinister grin, minacious eyes boring into the thick skull of the worthless dirtbag. It’s difficult not to imagine the pleasures that would derive from peeling the skin from his flesh, preferably with the blunt end of a rusting knife. 

“滚开!” 

As the hand shoves at him again, Jerome’s fingers latch onto the halfwit’s wrist in a blink of an eye, and unsheathing a switchblade hidden in his sleeve, he slices through veins and revels at a satisfying sight of splattering blood. The culpable fool chokes and shouts in pain at his cut-open wrist before the blue door swings open and out walks Butch Gilzean, eyes darting towards the hollering nincompoop. “What did you do?” he questions, calmly, and Jerome shrugs carelessly.

“He started it,” says Jerome. 

Butch’s mouth twists with disapproval. “Get in here,” he beckons the unruly redhead over, throwing occasional concerned glances at the injured watch, “And somebody get him a goddamn doctor.”

 

~~~~

 

Birds, chirping. Skies, bright blue. An endless stretch of hovering wooly clouds. As usual, mornings at Robinson Park are, for the most part, quiet, peculiarly before the clock strikes twelve. His aimless stroll had carried him to a lonesome bench, overlooking towards the neighboring reservoir, home to a never-ending surface of turquoise, a calming panorama. Perhaps, a sincere apology would suffice, not that the question of who’s wrong and who’s not matters still, not anymore. _It doesn’t_ . It _was_ an accident, wasn’t it? Wrong place, wrong time. The phone in his pocket vibrates. Bruce… poor Bruce doesn’t need to know, and Jeremiah need not tell. It’s just a scar on his temple, one that’s removable if Bruce wishes to. _He doesn’t need to know_. The interminable sting on his forearm drags his unwilling mind to the night before, plunging him into a front row seat to the heated argument. Repugnant impulsiveness, heedless imprudence, unprepossessing raucous shouting. Refusal to listen from Jerome’s behalf, infusing guilt into his brother from his own. 

_“It’s not my fault that he got in the way.”_

_“Do you even hear yourself?”_

_“Don’t pretend to be righteous now, Miah.”_

Call unanswered, the phone continues to vibrate in his pocket, and out of grudging obligation, Jeremiah retrieves it, considering that he had blatantly ignored and allowed the previous four to be led into voicemail. Much to his surprise, the current caller isn’t Bruce, or Jerome, or anyone he’d expected. Jeremiah reads through the number for a second time, and the surrealism overwhelms him. Slowly, he brings the device to his ear, hardly breathing. “Hello, Mr. Wayne,” Jeremiah says.

“Hello, Mr. Wilde,” greets Thomas Wayne, “It’s been a long time.”

“It’s good to hear from you, sir.”

“And you, as well,” his former employer says, “I understand that my calling may be too sudden but I have an occupational offer for you, Mr. Wilde. Or would you prefer if I address you by your real name, considering that it’s how the industry respectively addresses you these days?”

”Oh, Jeremiah is fine,” he answers stiffly, “What did you mean by an offer, Mr. Wayne?”

“Allow me to explain,” says Thomas Wayne, “As our next step for Wayne Corp, we’re interested in expanding the market for clean energy within and outside of Gotham City, and your presentation proved that it’s feasible to generate an astonishing degree of electrical power from a regular-sized compact engine. It’s a scientific breakthrough in itself. We see great potential in your generator, Jeremiah. As my offer stands, how would you like to come back to work at Wayne Corp, this time permanently?”

Jeremiah’s jaw drops. His throat, dry. “Mr. Wayne… I… I appreciate the offer, but… I, um...”

“Is everything alright?” His former employer lets out a laugh, “Well, you don’t have to provide me with an immediate answer, if that’s what you’re worked up about. Take all the time you need. I’ll contact you in the next few days. Would that provide you with ample time to consider my offer?”

“I… Yes, Mr. Wayne,” Jeremiah gapes.

“Good,” says Thomas Wayne, “I look forward to working together again, Jeremiah. You’re one of the most brilliant engineers I’ve ever had the honor of knowing and I’m sure that you’ll do great things in the future for Wayne Corp as well as for the city.”

Jeremiah could hardly breathe. “Thank you, sir.”

 

~~~~

 

The blue door shuts. 

“This way,” Butch steps forward, leading him towards the back of the enclosed room, and Jerome arches an inquisitive eyebrow at the discovery of a set of dimly lit stairs paving a narrow way into a dark, tenebrous basement. The redhead grins.

“You’re not going to tie me up, beat me with a stick and feed me roaches for breakfast, are you?” 

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Butch exasperates out of annoyance, “If you don’t come down here right now, I just might.”

“Kinky,” Jerome retorts cheekily as he takes his first step into the possible deathtrap. The basement, as dark as he’d expected it to be, is illuminated by not more than three lightbulbs, hanging from a ceiling so low that it makes even Jerome feel slightly claustrophobic. “You know, as much as I dig the dark and gloomy basement feels that I’m getting, very spooky indeed, ever thought about brightening it up _just_ a little in here?” Jerome inquires out of genuine curiosity.

“Considering that the previous owner is about to hand his estate over to me, I’ll take your suggestion into consideration.”

The redhead spins around on his heels. “Mr. Cobblepot.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Jerome,” says the shorter man as his hand extends, “And please, Oswald will do. There’s no need for such formalities between friends.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Jerome grins, shaking the hand, “And, uh, payment?”

“Right here,” Oswald reassures quietly as he grabs a black briefcase from one of his men, “As promised, in cold hard cash. A total of fifty-five grand.” 

Taken aback by the staggering amount, Jerome stiffens, and he pouts. “That’s a couple of grand surplus.”

“Yes, indeed,” Oswald nods, “You see, Jerome, I have another job for you. It’s the same as before, only that the location is at Dixon Docks, this Thursday night.”

“Come again,” Jerome tilts his head, somewhat disbelieved, “You want to rob him for a second time?”

“That is the plan,“ Oswald confirms, and Jerome’s stomach twists into a knot, “Now, don’t worry about the other half of your payment, Jerome. You’ll receive an additional twenty grand once you’re done with the job.”

“I don’t have any other choice but to agree, don’t I?”

“I’m afraid so,” he smiles.

Jerome pouts, yet again. “Right, I’m going to lay out the situation for you, Pengy,” he starts, “The Big Boss has been breathing down my neck ever since his old buddy over there got away.” Gesturing towards Butch, the other man glares dangerously at Jerome before folding his arms against his chest, distancing himself from the topic of their conversation. ”Now, in his eyes, I’ve already screwed up big time, sprinkled with the fact that the goods were stolen on _my_ watch the _last_ time, I’m as good as dead if I help you again. Plus, I’m running out of scapegoats to wallop and torture and put the blame on.”

_“You have until the count of three to tell me where the drugs are.”_

_His voice, cold. As the knife twirled around and in between his fingers, the fluidity of its motion was almost mesmerizing, and Jerome’s face was unsmiling, empty, and void. A blank slate._

Jerome recalls that night when he’d used his two scapegoats to vent his frustrations about his twin’s intolerable closeness with the millionaire brat, killing one in the end and relentlessly bludgeoning the other’s face in to the point of unrecognition. He remembers Tabitha yelling for him to stop, that they need him alive, and Jerome knew that the poor bastard would be put through interrogation after interrogation until the necessary info on the missing drugs were extracted. To his relief, the Galavans have gotten nothing out of the guy, because, obviously, he had no part in stealing the goods for Oswald Cobblepot. It was Jerome.

Despite his instinct telling him to dodge the other man’s unbidden touch, Jerome forces himself to stay put as Oswald places a hand on his shoulder, providing a mock-up of comfort to bend him to his will. “You succeeded once,” says Oswald, “You can do it again.”

“That’s not how things work,” Jerome insists.

“I believe in you,” Oswald insists as well, his grip tightening on his shoulder, and Jerome swears that he’s going to punch this insufferable bastard’s face in one day.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for another week! Thank you so much for sticking around, and as always, leave a comment or leave a kudo! 
> 
> Have a great day! :D


	14. Chapter 14

“Global sourcing is a procurement strategy by which a company moves its manufacturing unit to a cost effective location...” ****  
** **

Bruce Wayne, once a studious student in quotidian classes, discovers that words, despite uttered frequently and incessantly, can become meaningless, especially when one is constantly distracted by an issue which may or may not be as significant as one would think, but come to think of it, it’s just been two and a half days, perhaps he’s just busy. It’s highly unlikely that the boy would ghost him for no good reason at all, considering that their last virtual interaction was a flurry of affectionate back-and-forth text messaging, and their last face-to-face interaction was… well, literally, face to face... with Jeremiah’s against his, their lips brushing, biting, pulling. Bruising.  ****  
** **

Bruce’s breath hitches at the memory. He misses it. ****  
** **

The butt of his pen taps relentlessly against the edge of his swivel desk in the lecture hall. Bruce vividly recalls the last few messages he’d received from Jeremiah - questions regarding Bruce’s interest in different genres of movies, his personal preferences towards popcorn and carbonated beverages, and so on. Yes, they were in the midst of planning for a movie date. With that being said, Jeremiah’s timely unprecedented act of ghosting him makes no sense, and Bruce sighs internally, wondering what had gone terribly wrong, and where. ****  
** **

There _has_ to be a reason, a proper justification for Jeremiah’s actions… Unless… ****  
** **

Immediately, Bruce shuts down the meddling suggestion that his brain continues to come up with. _No_ . Absolutely _not_ . It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t... _That’s not Jeremiah_ , Bruce firmly reassures himself, knowing that the other boy couldn’t have possibly regretted it.  ****  
** **

But could he? ****  
** **

A sharp exhale sounds and Bruce jolts upright in his seat as a hand flies towards the oscillating pen in his hand, snatching it away unceremoniously. Selina hisses at him - something along the lines of disrupting an entire class with the vexatious tapping of his damned pen - and Bruce realizes that the awful distraction of his mind had lasted for a good minute. Awkwardly, he apologizes. ****  
** **

Once the class ends, Bruce heads to the cafeteria alone - despite not having an appetite - with the intention of buying something light to fill his stomach, at least for the remainder of the day. Making his way towards the patisserie, the pleasant warmth of afternoon sunlight feels slightly uplifting as it beams through an expansive skylight of grandeur architecture that illuminates the vast modern space. Once he’s paid for his croissant, Bruce turns to leave and, lo and behold, at the far end of the room by a fountain of contemporary build, there Jeremiah sits with a book in his hand as he lunches alone, and, to his surprise, the boy seems completely fine. He couldn’t tell if there’s anything out of the ordinary, perhaps limited by the extended distance separating them, so he steps forward, convincing himself that it couldn’t be true, that his brain is simply deriving plausible conclusions from the uncertainty of his situation. As he drops his bag onto an opposite seat, exerting enough force to hint at his repressed vexation, Jeremiah jumps a little, and he looks up, stunned. ****  
** **

“Hello, Jeremiah,” Bruce forces himself to remain calm as he sits across the redhead, “Do you mind if I join you?” ****  
** **

“Bruce…”  ****  
** **

“Thanks,” Bruce responds robotically, tearing his eyes away from the other boy’s as he lifts the croissant to his mouth, taking a small bite from the bread. It’s taste, remarkably bland.  ****  
** **

“Is that all you’re having for lunch, Bruce?” Jeremiah asks softly, seemingly out of genuine concern, elbows propped onto the cafeteria table as he leans forward, and Bruce responds with silence, eyes fixated on his own food as he takes another bite. “You can have some of mine, if you want,” Jeremiah offers, “A croissant hardly qualifies as a sufficient meal. I would know.” ****  
** **

Eventually, Bruce’s eyes dart upwards to find green, the sides of his lips tugging to form a small smile, one that vanishes too soon after. He mirrors Jeremiah’s posture.  ****  
** **

“I tried to reach you,” Bruce murmurs, his voice low enough for only both to hear.  ****  
** **

“I know,“ Jeremiah confesses, “I’m sorry for ignoring you, Bruce. I… I was preoccupied.” ****  
** **

“With what, Jeremiah?” ****  
** **

“It’s... something personal,” he swallows, and Bruce notices the other boy glancing at the healing injury on his temple, “I… I can assure you that I was going to call you once I was ready.” ****  
** **

Bruce blinks. “What do you mean?“  ****  
** **

When Jeremiah opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t, Bruce’s impatience grows as the other struggles with words.  ****  
** **

“Does it have to do with me?” he asks directly. ****  
** **

“No,” says Jeremiah, after a short pause. ****  
** **

“You hesitated.” ****  
** **

“It’s not about you, Bruce. I promise.” ****  
** **

“I can tell that even _you_ are incapable of convincing yourself that, Jeremiah.” ****  
** **

Silence ensues. ****  
** **

“Tell me what’s wrong.” ****  
** **

“No.” ****  
** **

“Jeremiah...” ****  
** **

“Like I said, Bruce, it’s personal, so, please, just leave me alone.” ****  
** **

Taken aback by Jeremiah’s sharp response, though not thoroughly unexpected, Bruce falls silent. It’s true, then. It’s reality. “You do regret it,” he mutters under his breath. ****  
** **

“Bruce, what are you talking about?” ****  
** **

Tugging at the collar of his own shirt, Bruce bites at his lower lip in frustration and unalloyed disappointment. “The kiss,” he says, hating that his voice sounds so vulnerable and broken and soft. ****  
** **

“N-No, Bruce, please, don’t think that it’s about th- It’s not! Okay? Trust me, it has _nothing_ to do with the kiss. I-I could never regret you. You know that, right? I would never.” ****  
** **

“Show me.” ****  
** **

As inappropriate as the timing is, Bruce discovers that he doesn’t care. He wants to trust him, to believe, to seek confirmation that deems his overthinking to be unnecessary and irrelevant, to feel those lips against his once again, the warmth, the softness, the sense of belonging. “Please,” he murmurs, quietly. A moment of silence stretches painfully before Jeremiah stands, grabbing Bruce by his wrist and pulls him away from the cafeteria, away from the crowds, and away from everything else. ****  
** **

Once the door to the stairwell slams shut, Jeremiah collides their faces together, sucking at his lower lip as he roughly pins Bruce against the cold wall, his forgotten bag landing onto the ground with a thud. Hands grasp desperately at the clothing around his waist, colliding their bodies together as Jeremiah forces his tongue through parted lips and Bruce’s shameless moan echoes through the empty stairwell as he licks into his mouth. Running his fingers upwards from the back of his neck, coiling around black locks, Jeremiah tugs, angling Bruce’s head properly to deepen their passionate kiss, twirling his tongue in the boy’s mouth, running it along his palate. When their tongues collide, Bruce moans again, pushing against Jeremiah through lubricious warmth and wetness. Realizing that he needs more - _so much more_ \- he shoves Jeremiah away without warning, bending over quickly to retrieve his bag from the ground. “Second floor, restroom,” he whispers into the other boy’s ear before sprinting up the stairs, Jeremiah hurrying along behind him.  ****  
** **

Barging through the door of the empty restroom, as expected, Bruce’s overt impatience shows as he pulls Jeremiah into the furthest cubicle by the collar of his shirt, reaching over to lock the door before Jeremiah grabs him by the hips and traps him against the cubicle wall, diving into his lips once more as his roaming hands travel underneath Bruce’s shirt, and Bruce gasps at the electrifying heat of skin against skin, of Jeremiah’s large hands raking their way up and down his back.  ****  
** **

As lust takes him over, Bruce loses all control, biting down hard, tugging, pulling, sucking, and the sweet sounds escaping the other’s throat stirs at his arousal. He needs more. Grasping at red locks, Bruce forcefully yanks Jeremiah’s head backwards, causing him to let out a mixture of a cry and whimper, and he pulls down the collar, surging forward to suck at the exposed skin of Jeremiah’s neck.  ****  
** **

Bruce hears his name. A panting, broken voice. He laps at the skin with his tongue, and then Jeremiah is pulling back, burying his face into Bruce’s neck before sinking his teeth in, gripping Bruce’s body painfully tight against his own larger frame, his bulge pressing noticeably against him. Without thinking, Bruce shoves a palm between them, feeling him, whispering his name, and Jeremiah moans deliciously into his ear, running his tongue along Bruce’s neck and sucking hard at the spot beneath his ear. ****  
** **

“Bruce...” Jeremiah gasps out loud, whimpering as Bruce squeezes harder. “ _God, Bruce_ ...”  ****  
** **

The deafening sound of a door swinging open echoes loudly across the white walls of the restroom, accompanied by obnoxious chatter of unwelcomed students that fill their ears and the two boys freeze awkwardly in their positions, not at all breathing. Presumably, the students are crowded at the sinks, and Bruce reckons that as long as these trespassers stay where they are, both of them would be safely hidden away from sight, but not from sound. Jeremiah must’ve thought that it’d be funny to test the waters, because he’s nuzzling against Bruce’s neck, lapping at skin while Bruce attempts to push his face away. Without warning, Jeremiah wraps the younger’s legs around himself, lifting the smaller boy so he could grind his hard-on against his, the sound of their shuffling drowned out by the students’ laughter that reverberates through the restroom. As he moves teasingly, Jeremiah crashes their lips together, shoving his tongue to the back of Bruce’s throat, as though he intends to take him now in this very stall.  ****  
** **

Bruce shoves at him, and Jeremiah ignores, grinding mercilessly, and Bruce bites back the whine threatening to escape his throat, his mind blacking out at the torture, _the pleasure_ . It’s too much. He’d wanted more, but he didn’t think that they’d get this far. When the sound of the door shutting echoes through the restroom, signifying the return of their privacy, Bruce clutches breathlessly on broad shoulders, moaning out loud as Jeremiah slams him against the cubicle wall over and over again.  ****  
** **

“Jeremiah, s-stop!” Bruce pleads, fingers twisting into red locks as he pulls helplessly, “Please!”

“Are you sure that’s what you really want, Bruce?” Jeremiah pants into his ear, licking and tugging at the lobe with his teeth.  ****  
** **

Bruce whines. “ _Ngh, yes_ … Jeremiah, p-please, we’re g-going too fast, and I-I have to get to class.” A soft moan escapes when the other boy stills. Bruce’s grip tightens around the handful of hair at the loss of Jeremiah’s friction. His breathing, ragged. The thought of skipping class crosses his mind but Bruce refuses to entertain the idea, pushing it aside to the back of his mind. At his request, Jeremiah obliges to unwrap Bruce’s legs from his back, only to later embrace Bruce tightly in his arms, his face buried into his neck as he attempts to normalize his breathing. ****  
** **

“I can’t believe you tried that,” Bruce mutters breathlessly before breaking into a laugh, “I swear if they’d actually caught us, I don’t know what I’ll do with you.” ****  
** **

“I apologize,” the other boy murmurs into his ear, “It seemed appropriate at the time.” ****  
** **

“Define appropriate.” ****  
** **

“Well, it definitely wasn’t _that_ ,” Jeremiah giggles.

****

~~~~

****

Knife acrobatics. Not entirely sure if it’s a thing, but it’ll surely turn some heads, Jerome thinks. How much could he make out of it, though? Statistically speaking, not much. Although, that’s what the circus is for, right? That’s where folks go to see other folks juggle and throw knives to put on a good show. He sure as hell ain’t going back to another one. Twirling the sharp knife by its handle, Jerome watches, fascinated by the fluidity of its movements between his fingers before bringing the blade down to slice his trout into half, seasoning it generously with sea salt and black pepper. Perhaps, a chef? Jerome cooks well, but, nah, where’s the fun in being cooped up in a kitchen for hours on end? As the frying pan sizzles with heated butter, Jerome lays down the fish, frying it for eight minutes until its skin turns crispy golden. Then, flipping the fillets over, he squeezes a lemon over the frying pan, basting the fish with its juice for the next minute. “Oh, yeah,” Jerome mutters proudly to himself as a whiff of mouth-watering aroma invades his nose.  ****  
** **

A muffled rattling of keys sounds, and the front door swings open. Hearing the familiar shuffling of feet, Jerome braces himself as he attempts to initiate a friendly conversation with his twin.  ****  
** **

“How was your day?” he asks casually. ****  
** **

“Good,” Jeremiah surprisingly answers without hesitation, and Jerome considers it a win, “How was yours?” ****  
** **

“Same old,” says Jerome, retrieving two plates from the dish rack. Carefully, he transports a fillet onto each before soaking the fish with lemony juices from the frying pan.  ****  
** **

“I bought Doritos,” Jeremiah mutters, opening one of the cabinets to store two additional bags into their inventory. A second win. ****  
** **

“And now, my day’s even better.” ****  
** **

“Those are for later.” ****  
** **

“Oh, of course,” Jerome nods quickly, “I know that.”  ****  
** **

Spotting a small smile on his brother’s face, Jerome considers it as another win.  ****  
** **

“It smells good,” Jeremiah remarks, observing as he adds some peas and carrots to the dish, “I thought you didn’t like fish.” ****  
** **

“I was at a fish market,” Jerome shrugs, “Might as well, you know. Hey, help set up the table, will you?” ****  
** **

Agreeing to dinner? Fourth win. ****  
** **

As the television runs in the background, the twins eat quietly at the dining table, not a single word uttered once settled into their chairs. Strange, Jerome reckons, but he’ll take it over receiving the dreadful cold shoulder, considering the fact that his brother has a knack for that. He contemplates telling a joke, a funny story, or whatever it is to lighten up the plaguing dull mood, but Jerome remains wary, acknowledging the prevailing reality of their shaky brotherly bond. Their situation, as Jerome understands, is precarious, wobbly, and unstable. Volatile, almost. Granted, disagreements do occur between friends and family, a common hitch, but rarely between the Valeska twins. At this point, Jerome couldn’t initiate even the most casual subject of conversation because he doesn’t know what to say. It’s difficult not to compare himself to that scrawny brat, of how Jeremiah would react better if he’s telling the joke instead of little ol’ Jerome.  ****  
** **

“I was offered a job today,“ Jeremiah says suddenly, snapping Jerome out of his meddling thoughts, “It’s a permanent position at Wayne Enterprises.” ****  
** **

_Wayne_ . That name, again. “Going back to the old roots, huh?” Jerome fakes a smile, “Congratulations.“ ****  
** **

“I haven’t said yes,“ Jeremiah murmurs, prodding absentmindedly at the fillet. ****  
** **

“Why not?“ ****  
** **

“I quit for a reason, remember?” ****  
** **

“Yeah, and that was years ago,” Jerome drawls, not sure of what the problem is.  ****  
** **

“Still...” ****  
** **

“I think it hardly matters now, M…” It almost slips, his brother’s name, but for some reason, Jerome stops himself. ****  
** **

“Why do you think so?” ****  
** **

“For one, the kid’s legal now, isn’t he?” Jerome asks, suppressing an urge to roll his eyes at the mention of the insignificant little pest, “That was your concern, wasn’t it? Obsessing over a minor? For all he knows, you two met at a club and you’re a senior on campus. He doesn’t know anything and you don’t have to feel guilty either.” ****  
** **

“I don’t know if I could look Mr. Wayne in the eye. After all, I expect that we’ll be meeting very soon.” ****  
** **

“Practice makes perfect, genius,” Jerome waves dismissively, “You’ll get the hang of it.” ****  
** **

His brother falls silent, prodding at the cooked trout with his fork. With him, it always comes back to the brat, doesn’t it? How boring. ****  
** **

“Hey, let bygones be bygones,” Jerome adds half-heartedly, “No one will know.“

****

~~~~

****

_Adjusting the plastic frame against the bridge of his nose, Jeremiah studied the drafts of the prospective Wayne Plaza thoroughly in hopes of identifying underlying issues that could possibly obstruct the integrity of its construction. The young engineer scanned through the plans over and over again. His mind focussed on one thing, and one thing only._ ****  
** **

_“Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Wilde?”_ ****  
** **

_Jeremiah looked up, straining to pull his lips into a smile, mimicking the acceptable behavioral pattern typically displayed in social situations. He was improving. Jerome would be glad._ ****  
** **

_“Allow me, Mr. Wayne,” he offered out of politeness and moved towards the pantry next door, “How would you like your coffee, sir?”_ ****  
** **

_“Oh, black, two sugars.”_ ****  
** **

_It was Jeremiah’s second visit to Wayne Tower. A dream come true. One he had thought was unachievable, yet here he was, collaborating with Thomas Wayne himself to build a landmark in Gotham City. If only they could see him then…_ ****  
** **

_“Do you have any family, Mr. Wilde?”_ ****  
** **

_Ah, yes. That dreaded question. One he had actively avoided in the past, present, and with high probability, in the future as well. When ineluctable, however, Jeremiah lied. He shook his head, settling into his chair in the meeting room as he held a mug of warm coffee to his face, breathing in the aroma. “I don’t have any.”_ ****  
** **

_“Oh, I see. Forgive me for I don’t mean to pry,” Thomas Wayne began, “but it was a bit concerning to discover that you’re twenty and living alone in this city without an emergency contact person that the company could get in touch with, in case of, well, emergencies.”_ ****  
** **

_“I manage well alone,” Jeremiah nodded with a polite smile, “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Wayne, I really do, but I’ve gotten used to handling things on my own.” That was a lie. An anxious feeling crept its way into his system, and Jeremiah shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was almost time for his pill. He dreaded it._ ****  
** **

_“Speaking of which, I think my son has arrived,” his employer mentioned, “Please, excuse me for a short moment.”_ ****  
** **

_Nodding, Jeremiah maintained the smile on his face before bringing the mug to his lips, sipping. Wayne Plaza, his creation, his pride, his mark on the city. He scanned over the drafts splayed on the large rounded desk once again, standing from his seat to get a better view as he took another sip from his mug. A moving figure distracted him from the corner of his eye and Jeremiah glanced at its direction, not knowing what he would find, not bothered either. Then, he froze, and so did time._ ****  
** **

_Beauteous. Bonny. Bewitching._ ****  
** **

_The boy was beautiful._ ****  
** **

_His build, svelte. His face, endearing. His innocence, entrancing. Oh, and that smile. That lovely smile._ ****  
** **

_Jeremiah was enthralled._

****

~~~~

****

Wrongness. ****  
** **

As difficult as it is to pinpoint what’s bothering him, Jerome carries on with his day - climbing out of bed, brushing his teeth, making breakfast, eating breakfast, watch the news, watch another channel of news, binge-watch an entire season of a random series, eat ice cream for lunch, showering, jumping back onto the couch, proceed with amalgamation with said couch as he binge-watches a few more episodes of another random series before the clock strikes seven and Jeremiah returns from his day out.  ****  
** **

Yet, the same wrongness remains perennial.  ****  
** **

“Hey,“ Jerome calls out as his twin walks in through their front door. ****  
** **

“How long have you been sitting on that couch?“ Jeremiah asks. ****  
** **

“How long have you been out?” ****  
** **

“You need a better hobby,” Jeremiah remarks, settling down by his side, eyeing disapprovingly at the empty bags of junk food splayed out on their coffee table, “And a healthier diet.” ****  
** **

“Don’t judge me,” Jerome fakes a chuckle, resting his feet against the table, “So, how was your day?” ****  
** **

A pause. “I accepted the job.” ****  
** **

Jerome arches an eyebrow. “Well, congratulations, again.” ****  
** **

“Thanks...” ****  
** **

“You don’t sound too thrilled about it,” Jerome eyes him suspiciously, “What’s the matter?” ****  
** **

“It’s nothing,” Jeremiah shakes his head, eyes focussed on the television instead, “Just tired.” ****  
** **

With nothing further to add, Jerome lets the conversation die, because what else was he supposed to do? He’s too preoccupied with his internal turmoil anyways. Once the clock strikes eleven, he heads out, dressed in all black, hands digging into the pockets of his jacket as he strides along the pavement, trying his best to ignore the grim unsettling feeling brewing in his gut, basically shouting at him to turn around and go straight home. Jerome doesn’t. He climbs into the backseat of a black van parked a few meters down, shutting its door with a deafening thud. ****  
** **

Dixon Docks, tonight.  ****  
** **

God, Jerome wishes he’d never had affiliated with Oswald Cobblepot.

 

* * *

 

\--- IN THE NEXT CHAPTER ---

 

As fast as his legs could carry him, Jerome sprints across the port, clutching onto a revolver in his grip as he barges into a confusing maze of highly stacked forty footer shipping containers, realizing, far too late now, that he’d fortuitously trapped himself for the cops to arrest him. Jerome curses under his breath, palms pressing against the cold wall of steel as he follows whichever path that presents itself. It’s fucking dark too.  ****  
** **

Gunshots in the distance. ****  
** **

Jerome attempts to latch onto one of the roofs of the shipping containers with the tips of his fingers, testing to see if he could climb atop and escape the god-forsaken maze, but to no avail. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps approaches and Jerome flees.  ****  
** **

“I know you’re in here!” ****  
** **

Jerome rolls his eyes. ****  
** **

“There’s nowhere to run. This whole place is surrounded. You won’t get away.” ****  
** **

A dead-end. “Oh, my… Fuck.” Jerome cusses, eyes darting upwards to scour for another way out. Dumb luck. He’d managed to trap himself. What are the odds? ****  
** **

“Jerome Valeska!” ****  
** **

Well, shit.  ****  
** **

Gordon, that fucking prick.  ****  
** **

“Hands where I can see them!” ****  
** **

Irritated, Jerome rolls his eyes for the second time, reluctantly raising his hands as he turns around.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you could probably tell that I can't write smutty things to save my life. I'm trying~  
> If you know of any well-written smut, please recommend it to me. I need to write better :D
> 
> As always, thanks for coming back for the new chapter and hopefully, see you again next week!  
> Don't forget to comment or leave a kudo! Have a great day :D


	15. Chapter 15

The plan is simple. _Uno_ , arrive at Dixon as per scheduled with the crew. _Dos_ , double check shipment, approve and initiate send-off. _Tres_ , acting flabbergasted when news of Oswald Cobblepot’s alleged interception and looting reaches his ears. As irritating as it had been to negotiate with the ice bird, Cobblepot had agreed, although reluctantly, to allow him to operate on his own, adopting Jerome’s plan to lead their latest heist. Cobblepot’s men are to intercept said shipment en route, heavily armed, claiming all souls on board and leaving no commodities behind. A misfortune to Theo Galavan to be perceived as a deliberate attack, at which the situation would prove to be in favor of Jerome, making it seem unreasonable to suspect him for his incompetency to properly execute his job and plausible affiliation with the incident. His life’s at stake for doing the dirty work after all. Hence, his fabricated innocence must be prioritized above everything else. ****  
** **

Stepping onto the port, Jerome’s about to make his way towards the dock when a pestering voice stops him in his tracks, and he huffs. ****  
** **

“Impatient much?” ****  
** **

“Sorry for wanting to get this over with as soon as possible,” Jerome drawls, staring ahead as he carefully chooses his next words and tone of voice, the sound of a vehicle door sliding shut behind him ringing in his ears, “But we’re next door to the Chinese. Not exactly a fan of ours, remember?” ****  
** **

“Theo paid them well,” Tabitha reassures, stepping forward to lead the way to the docks, “They’ll be out of our hair for the time being.” ****  
** **

“Still, it’s only those who patrol,” Jerome tags along by her side, “Frankly, I don’t find those bozos to be very trustworthy.” ****  
** **

“You’re not nervous, are you?” ****  
** **

“It's just weird to be loading shipment so close to Chinatown,” he says, faking the hint of worry in his voice, “Other ports were fine before.” ****  
** **

“Theo’s received information that they’re being monitored by the GCPD,” Tabitha tells him, “As much as we hate it here, it’s the safest choice in Gotham. The fact that we have no business with the Chinese provides us camouflage from the cops.” ****  
** **

“Uh huh, but you’re forgetting Skipper,” Jerome reminds, “Heard he’s been getting pretty up close and personal with the triads in Chinatown. So, you see, this may not be the safest choice in Gotham, after all.” ****  
** **

“Cobblepot doesn’t matter. He’s a nuisance,” Tabitha remarks, “And he's also an idiot.”  ****  
** **

“Oh, yeah?” Jerome smirks, “How so?” ****  
** **

Tabitha glances at him, the sides of her lips twitching slightly. The two of them step onto the dock. “For one,” she states nonchalantly, resting a hand on Jerome’s shoulder, “He hasn’t figured out that some of the men working closest with him works for my brother too.”  ****  
** **

With that, Tabitha’s hand falls as she steps forward towards the opened crates arranged along the dock, prepared for loading post-inspection. How perplexing. His legs carry him towards the commodities at display, his eyes scanning over multiplied packets of white and blue, his brain eroding within his thick skull from newly absorbing said intriguing information, but his heart remains beating at a fairly normal pace. His face, indifferent. He ought to be freaking the fuck out at this point, as any regular bloke would, but he doesn’t. Jerome remains eerily calm, despite the life-threatening sitch that he’s found himself in. Perhaps, she doesn’t know, because why else would he still be here if she does? What purpose would he serve? Jerome moves on to inspect the next crate as he wrecks his brain to figure out his next step in this game of chess. It’s times like these when Jerome wishes that he could think like his brother. Without much of a choice, he plays along. ****  
** **

“Sneaky,” Jerome casually comments, “So, why’s Kowalski still alive? Figured the boss would rather see his head on a stick than to have him wobbling around and whatnot.” ****  
** **

“Theo has his plans,” Tabitha replies distractedly, examining a blue packet in her hand, “Besides, public opinions matter. What would they make of him if anything happens to his competitor before the campaign ends?” ****  
** **

He shrugs. "I could make it look like an accident.” ****  
** **

All of a sudden, a rattling of metal colliding against cement sounds from afar and Jerome darts his eyes towards its direction, spotting a distinctive shadow ducking behind a distant barrel. The plan didn’t change, he reassures himself, which, lamentably, could only mean one thing. “It looks like we’ve got company,” Jerome mutters under his breath, drawing a revolver from his holster and opens fire.

****

~~~~

****

Tossing and turning in bed, Jeremiah struggles to fall asleep.  ****  
** **

The clock ticks, interrupting the silence trapped within the four walls of his room. His bed creaks, restless weight shifting from one side to another. Unsettling. ****  
** **

Something feels unquestionably _off_ , and his guts twist into an ugly knot.

****

~~~~

****

Gunfire. ****  
** **

Ducking behind the crates, Jerome spots an escape route. “Ladies first,” he urges at his partner in crime, eyes running over the smudges of crimson staining her bleeding chest and back. The bullet went clean through. Tabitha, gritting her teeth to endure blistering pain and, also, ignoring his good intentions completely, peers over the crates to unleash a flurry of bullets at nearby police and Jerome bursts into laughter at her hilarious display of ballsiness. “Alright, suit yourself.” ****  
** **

“On your left!” Tabitha shouts at him, and Jerome almost jumps out of his skin before aiming his gun to the left and miraculously shoots the cop in the head before getting shot at himself. Eyes widening comically, Jerome stares at the barrel of his gun in utter disbelief. Holy shit, that was a close one.  ****  
** **

“I knew he was there,” Jerome shrugs sheepishly. ****  
** **

“Yeah, I’m sure you did,” Tabitha sneers, and the hilarity of witnessing sarcasm oozing out of the pores of her skin - an undeniably rare occurrence indeed - almost makes him laugh out loud for a second time, but of course, he doesn’t. The timing isn’t at all appropriate now, is it? So, he snickers instead, and Tabitha stares wide-eyed with annoyance which tickles him even more. ****  
** **

“I’m sorry, but the look on your face is hysterical!” Jerome shouts over the ear-splitting sounds of continuous gunfire, flinching out of instinct when a stray bullet hits his crate, a mere few centimeters above his head. To much of Tabitha’s detestation, Jerome bursts into laughter, again. “What terrible aim for a cop,” he snorts. ****  
** **

“I know,” Tabitha drawls, rolling her eyes as she stands to fire another round over the crate, wincing at the pain of straining herself. ****  
** **

“You wanted that bullet to hit me, didn’t you?” Jerome asks jokingly as he peeks over the crate, noticing the GCPD closing in, wary of the fact that the both of them wouldn’t stand a chance were they to remain in position for the next minute and a half.  ****  
** **

So, here’s the situation. Judging from the mess that Jerome’s dragged himself into, it’s reasonable to assume that the Galavans have figured out his traitorous affiliation with Penguin, and the question of whether they’ll do anything about _that_ looms like an ominous cloud in the back of his mind. It’s also reasonable to assume that - if they have indeed figured it out - he’d be forced to sit through a series of torturous interrogations where he’ll be beaten into an indescribable pulp before the first question even reaches his ears; or maybe they’ll cut those off as well in the process just for the heck of it, along with a couple of fingers and his tongue.  ****  
** **

Oh, the fun that would ensue.  ****  
** **

Be that as it may, an opportunity to explain himself would be nice prior to participating wholly in the preordained sessions of invigorating torment. Let it be known that Jerome had no choice, not when Butch Gilzean’s gun was pointed directly in between his brother’s eyes, forcing Jerome to comply with Cobblepot’s terms or have them both be murdered in cold blood at the secluded resort on the mountain top.  ****  
** **

Thus, an amendment is highly necessary.  ****  
** **

Tabitha’s injuries are far from fatal. Her capability of running ought to be unhindered. With that being said, Jerome reckons that a little act of self-sacrifice would, in a way, ameliorate his soiled record. Let it be known that he remains loyal and faithful to the Galavans, despite being forced at gunpoint to work for the enemy. That way, he could haply claim a spot in her good graces as well as her brother’s - considering everything that he’s done for them in the past as well - and keep Jeremiah out of harm’s way. After all, that’s the important outcome, Jerome’s own safety be damned. His brother comes first. ****  
** **

He’s seen what happens to those who double-cross the Galavans. ****  
** **

It’s safe to say that Jerome is afraid.  ****  
** **

“You wanted that bullet to hit me, didn’t you?” He recalls asking, tightening his grip around the revolver. ****  
** **

“Whatever,” she replies sarcastically, and Jerome smirks. ****  
** **

“Well, then who am I to disappoint?” he chuckles out of amusement, “Oh, and, uh, run when you can.”  ****  
** **

Wiggling his eyebrows, Jerome leaps onto his feet, firing at the gaining cops as he darts aside, drawing attention away from the crates, paying no mind to Tabitha yelling his name over the blaring commotion of gunfire. His bullets strike one in the head, another in the chest, two more in their torsos, and Jerome dashes away, retreating to hide behind a nearby shipping container; a temporary shelter from spraying bullets. Calculating, Jerome sighs. Of course he’s running out of ammunition. Back pressed against steel, he peeks his head out, glancing over at the crates and, as expected, finds an empty space where Tabitha had hid for shelter. ****  
** **

“Jerome Valeska!” ****  
** **

What the hell?  ****  
** **

He perks up at the distant yet familiar voice, his brain matching it with a face he’d sometimes seen on the news. Now, a question arises - a rather peculiar one indeed - that makes Jerome wonder just how the hell did this detective from the GCPD come across his fucking name? Who ratted him out? Not the Galavans, surely. Far from suicidal, they are.  ****  
** **

He needs to leave, pronto.  ****  
** **

“Time to go,” Jerome mutters under his breath as he starts to run towards the port.

****

~~~~

****

As lights flicker on in the living room, Jeremiah fills his cup with water, the sound of liquid sloshing around the glass fills his ears. He’s given up on getting a good night’s sleep, settling comfortably in front of the television, switching it on and literally jumping a full centimeter from the couch when gunshots blast from its blaring speakers. Curse Jerome for watching television with the volume amped up so ridiculously high, Jeremiah tells himself as he rapidly taps on the remote control to lower it. It’s a cinematic effect, his brother had used to say, and Jeremiah would retort with snark or sarcasm, depending on his mood.  ****  
** **

Those were simpler times.  ****  
** **

God, he misses them. More than anything, he does, but now, Jeremiah can’t even utter his brother’s name aloud. He couldn’t. ****  
** **

Fingers coiling around his cellular device, he dials Jerome’s number on impulse. It’s nothing of import, he avows. He simply wants to hear his brother’s voice. That’s all. ****  
** **

Jerome doesn’t answer.

****

~~~~

****

As fast as his legs could carry him, Jerome sprints across the port, ignoring the vibrating phone in his pocket and clutches onto the revolver in his grip as he barges into a confusing maze of highly stacked forty footer shipping containers, realizing, far too late now, that he’d fortuitously trapped himself for the cops. Jerome curses under his breath, palms pressing against the cold wall of steel as he follows whichever path that presents itself. It’s fucking dark as well. He perks up at the sound of gunshots in the distance, picking up pace as he makes his way through the maze of high walls and dark passages. Undoubtedly, Jeremiah would love it here. As a kid, the nerd had always loved drawing and designing mazes, aside from burying his face in books most of the time. He attempts to latch onto one of the roofs of the shipping containers with the tips of his fingers, testing to see if he could climb atop whilst clinging onto extremely narrow spaces and escape the god-forsaken maze, but without success. All of a sudden, a sound of footsteps approaches and Jerome flees.  ****  
** **

“I know you’re in here!” ****  
** **

He rolls his eyes. ****  
** **

“There’s nowhere to run. This whole place is surrounded. You won’t get away.” ****  
** **

At this moment, Jerome halts, running his eyes along the high wall of steel that stands before him, blocking his path, towering over his height. It’s a dead-end. “Oh, my… Fuck.” Jerome cusses as he scours for another way out. It’s sheer dumb luck that he’d managed to trap himself. What are the odds? ****  
** **

“Jerome Valeska!“  ****  
** **

Well, _shit_ . Gordon, that fucking prick.  ****  
** **

“Hands where I can see them!“ ****  
** **

Irritated, Jerome rolls his eyes again, raising his hands reluctantly as he turns around, squinting at the blinding flashlight that’s inconsiderately directed at his face. ****  
** **

“Drop your weapon,” orders the detective. ****  
** **

“How’s it going, Jim?” He asks casually, eyes still squinting. ****  
** **

“I said drop your weapon.” ****  
** **

Jerome pouts. “Easy there, tough guy,” he chuckles, waving his gun in the air, “You know, if you’re trying to get someone to do something, maybe ask nicely, detective, don’t just demand.” ****  
** **

“I’ll shoot you, Valeska.” ****  
** **

“Go ahead,” Jerome snorts with laughter, “Be my guest.”  ****  
** **

“Don’t think I won’t,” Jim Gordon warns. ****  
** **

“You know, I thought you’d be more fun,” Jerome remarks, stalling time as he scours for a way out, “Considering all the things that I’ve heard about you, Jimbo. Come to think of it, they did get one thing right though. You _are_ one righteous cop with a giant stick up his ass.” ****  
** **

“Give it up, Valeska. I know what you’re up to. You’re not going anywhere else but straight to Blackgate.” ****  
** **

“On what charges?” ****  
** **

With that, Detective James Gordon’s lips press into a thin line, twisting even more so with anger when a cheshire grin appears on Jerome’s face. “Drop the weapon,” Gordon reiterates. ****  
** **

“Is it the murders?” Jerome arches his eyebrows, his grin widening minaciously, “The, uh, bashed in skulls? The cut up faces? The bodies you found in back alleys all over the city that’s missing a couple of body parts, huh? Oh, and the mutilated kids? Yeah, that one’s on me too. I don’t just throw people off rooftops, you know. There’s only so much fun to be had. By the fifth body, you start to get a bit bored, believe me.” ****  
** **

“You’re a sick bastard.” ****  
** **

“Hey, call me what you want. At least I don’t rape,” Jerome shrugs, “There’s a special place in hell for those worthless scumbags.” ****  
** **

“You’re no different from them.” ****  
** **

“Oh, but I am,” Jerome’s grin falters, “And I’ll kill every last one of them. Or maybe just one.” ****  
** **

“Enough talk, Valeska,” spits the detective, “Put the gun down.” ****  
** **

“I think we’re close enough to be on a first-name basis, don’t you?” Jerome suggests, relief washing over him as a feminine silhouette emerges from the shadows behind the cop, “Seeing that we’ll be running into each other more often in the future.” ****  
** **

“Drop it!” ****  
** **

His grin returns as Tabitha raises the barrel of her gun to the back of the detective’s head, trigger at the ready. Jerome hums in consideration. “No, don’t kill him,” he chuckles, “He’s more fun alive.” In a flash, Gordon spins around, and Jerome winces, knowing the feeling, as Tabitha mercilessly knees the detective in the crotch before smashing her gun against his head, leaving him stumbling onto the ground in great pain. “We’re even,” says his partner in crime, and his grin widens. ****  
** **

“Au revoir!” Jerome calls out as he escapes, all the while laughing like a madman.

****

~~~~

****

As expected, the telephone attached to the living room wall rings in the middle of the night. Cautiously, the mayor-to-be makes his way through the dimly lit corridors of his home, limping as he navigates pass exquisite furniture of Italian leather imported from overseas, resting his weight on a supportive cane in his right hand. Bringing the handset to his ear, Oswald Cobblepot, in his cheeriest voice, greets the caller on the other end of the line - the bearer of his good news. ****  
** **

“The GCPD got to them first.” ****  
** **

His eyes widen with surprise. How did the cops know of the shipment at Dixon? ****  
** **

“And what of Jerome Valeska?” Oswald inquires. ****  
** **

“He escaped.” ****  
** **

“Good,” Oswald pouts, “Find out where he is. Make sure he’s safe.” ****  
** **

Resting the handset back in place, Oswald steps away, resting both of his hands against the top of his cane as he contemplates the current predicament, the sides of his lips curving out of pure amusement. Unbeknownst to the GCPD, they’ve done the dirty work for him, confiscating everything on sight. What a tremendous loss to the business, thinks Oswald as he holds back his laughter. Oh, Theo Galavan must be fuming! How he wishes that he could see the look on his face when his minions deliver the bad news.  ****  
** **

“Why are you pacing around the living room in the dark, and in the middle of the night?” ****  
** **

Oswald spins around, smile still intact. ****  
** **

“And smiling like an idiot, no less?” ****  
** **

“I’m just happy, Edward,” he says, tilting his head, “Very happy.”

****

~~~~

****

Restless. ****  
** **

The nagging unsettling feeling claws at his bones, his muscles, his veins. Bit by bit, it gnaws at his flesh.  ****  
** **

As the credits roll on-screen, Jeremiah slumps against the couch, scrolling through emails on his phone whilst taking a break from the television, his mind preoccupied. It’s foolish of him to expect Jerome to answer his calls. Isn’t it? He’s most probably busy with work, because why else would he had not answered?  ****  
** **

Right?  ****  
** **

The foreign tendrils of worry twists inside him and Jeremiah’s device falls from his hands. The front door swings open. His head turns. His breath hitches. His twin strides towards his own bedroom, not sparing him a glance when he tells Jeremiah that they’re leaving.  ****  
** **

The both of them. ****  
** **

“What?”  ****  
** **

He chokes. ****  
** **

“What happened?”  ****  
** **

Jerome doesn’t answer. ****  
** **

His legs carry him towards his twin’s bedroom, freezing in place by the door frame as he watches Jerome empty his wardrobe, tossing piles of clothes onto his bed. A luggage lays on his floor, unzipped and opened.  ****  
** **

“Why are we leaving?” Jeremiah asks, voice soft and in disbelief, “What did you do?” ****  
** **

“The cops found out it was me,” Jerome utters calmly, not sparing him a glance as he packs, “So, before they find out where we live and come knocking, we’re getting our asses out of here.” ****  
** **

This isn’t happening. His blood runs cold. ****  
** **

“Go pack your things,” his twin tells him as he empties out one of his bedside drawers. ****  
** **

“How could you?” His voice, weak.  ****  
** **

Jerome ignores him, disappearing into the bathroom, and reality caves in. His heart sinks.  ****  
** **

It’s happening. ****  
** **

The last night of standing within familiar walls. The space, the colors, the normality, all will inevitably turn into memory, bound to fade. He’s not ready to leave. He will never be. This is his home. It’s where he lives, where he retreats, where he belongs, where he knows that he can sleep safely without the need to hide a knife under his pillow like he’d used to. A broken soul he was when Jerome had brought him into his bedroom for the first time, telling him that he could have it all to himself, that Jerome would be sleeping in his own room across the living space. A healing soul he was when Jerome had brought home a fruitcake that one morning, lighting up two candles and practically forced him into making a birthday wish with a promise that it would come true, and it did. In fact, it does every year. Jeremiah deserves this home. He can’t leave, knowing that once the door shuts behind them for the final time, everything will be as good as gone - their memories, their sanctuary, their haven. ****  
** **

Jeremiah can’t do it. He can’t.  ****  
** **

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, voice barely a whisper, when Jerome returns to the bedroom. ****  
** **

“We have to.” ****  
** **

“But I don’t want to.” His voice breaks. “Jerome, please...” ****  
** **

His twin is silent. ****  
** **

“Jerome...” ****  
** **

He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t. ****  
** **

“Jerome?”  ****  
** **

His heart breaks as his brother continues to pack his clothes into the luggage. He can’t let Jerome do this. He mustn’t. With heavy feet, Jeremiah trudges forward, grasping at his shirt to force Jerome backwards, fingers coiling desperately around the fabric as he forces his twin to acknowledge his presence. It’s pitiful. ****  
** **

“Miah, come on.” ****  
** **

“I don’t want to leave.”

“It’s not safe here,” Jerome insists. ****  
** **

“You’ll work something out,” Jeremiah begs, “You always do, Jerome. Please!”  ****  
** **

Hands reaching towards his, Jerome attempts to pry them from his shirt, stepping back further to distance himself, but Jeremiah persists, holding him in place. ****  
** **

“No, you’re not doing this,” Jeremiah grits his teeth, his vision blurring, “This is our first _real_ home, you son of a bitch. You’re not making me do this. You can’t make me leave.” ****  
** **

“Let me go,” Jerome exhales sharply, pulling harder to uncoil his fingers from his shirt, “Miah, you’re making it harder than it fucking needs to be.” ****  
** **

“Please, Jerome, I’m begging you. Don’t do this.” ****  
** **

“Learn to let things go, will you?” Jerome scorns, “It’s just an apartment.” ****  
** **

Out of nowhere, the sound of someone clearing their throat startles the both of them and Jeremiah almost strains his neck as he turns to see who it is, gritting his teeth painfully as he finds one of the Galavans standing by the doorway in _his_ apartment, arms folded against her chest. Her expression, bored. His grip loosens. Who does she think she is? ****  
** **

“Sorry to interrupt,” Tabitha announces nonchalantly, “But we’re running out of time.” ****  
** **

His jaw starts to hurt.  ****  
** **

“Five minutes,” Jerome requests, forcefully shoving Jeremiah’s hands away, taking a step back. ****  
** **

“We’re leaving in three.” ****  
** **

His insides are boiling with rage. His anger, sudden. ****  
** **

“You heard her,” Jerome tells him once she’s gone, “Get packing.” ****  
** **

He won’t move. He couldn’t. Jeremiah doesn’t. ****  
** **

“Miah?” ****  
** **

“I’m not going with you,” Jeremiah states. His face, emotionless. His body, numb. ****  
** **

“Miah, you can’t stay here," his brother exasperates, "The cops are coming!” ****  
** **

“And whose fault is that?” ****  
** **

Jerome sighs outwardly. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? Go pack your things, please, we’re wasting time.” ****  
** **

“I’m staying,” Jeremiah insists, his voice eerily calm, “I won’t be dragged into your mess, Jerome. When the copsarrive, I’ll tell them that you ran away in the middle of the night, that I don’t know where you are, nor do I care, because we’re done, Jerome.” ****  
** **

With that, Jerome scoffs. “You don’t mean that.” ****  
** **

“I won’t be affiliated with you, nor will I be seen doing so.” Jeremiah takes his leave. He can’t bear to watch Jerome walk out their front door. He won’t. “It’s for your own good and mine.”  ****  
** **

Jeremiah forces himself to remain calm.  ****  
** **

“Goodbye, Jerome. I wish you the best.” ****  
** **

He must. ****  
** **

“Miah, come on!" Jerome drawls with complaint. "That's... You can't be serious... Miah! MIAH! Y-You know what, suit yourself, alright? Suit yourself.” ****  
** **

In silence, Jeremiah retreats to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him without sparing Jerome another look.

He simply couldn’t bring himself to do it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Comments or Kudos!  
> Thanks for reading, you guys!  
> Have a great day :D


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNOUNCEMENT:
> 
> FIRST OF ALL, I'd like to say thank you SO much for coming back to this story every week. It truly means a lot that you guys are still reading after so long. Honestly, I can't thank you enough. It's been a pleasure writing and updating this story on a weekly basis!
> 
> NOW, I would like to apologize, sincerely, for I won't be able to update during the next two to three weeks because, unfortunately, I'll be out-stationed. I've recently gotten a new job as well, which means that updating on a weekly basis might be difficult to meet, though I will try my best to do so, because I can't imagine not continuing this story for too long. It's become a big part of my life now and I can't leave it! T.T
> 
> So, again, I'm sorry if I take too long to update future chapters! Please, bear with me! I'm trying my best...
> 
> Anyways, that's it for the announcement. I probably hate it as much as you do, maybe even more.
> 
> As always, thanks again for coming back! I truly appreciate it. Do leave a comment or a kudo, and I'll see you in the next two or three weeks!
> 
> Have a great day! :D

_It couldn’t have been hours, could it? Jeremiah darted his heavy eyes to the clock on the opposite wall. His back strained, aching with every intake of breath. It was torturous. He heard a faint sound of the apartment’s front door opening and closing before a shuffle of feet approached a short while later. Jeremiah watched as a shadow materialized through the slit underneath his door._ ****  
** **

_“Hey, uh, can you let me in?”_ ****  
** **

_His knuckles turned white._ ****  
** **

_“I just need to know that you’re okay.”_ ****  
** **

He’s breathing. He knows that he is, one labored breath after another, and yet, he’s suffocating. Jeremiah clenches his fists. The slit underneath his door, empty. ****  
** **

_He observed the shadow of his brother’s two feet underneath the door, expecting it to vanish into thin air within the next minute. A recurring theme, it’d once been. An unresponsive Jeremiah, hiding away in his room, dreading the position of being alone with his nightmarish thoughts and memories. Yet, he’d rather suffer on his own than drag his brother down with him. It wouldn’t have been fair to Jerome, not after everything that he had done to get Jeremiah out._ ****  
** **

_“Miah? Can I come in?”_ ****  
** **

Yes.  ****  
** **

His grip tightens. Knees against his chest. Back against the cabinet. Brooding in the same position as he’d been in the memory that he recalls, tormented by the same need for his brother’s companionship. Regrettably, the one detail that differentiates then from now is the fact that Jerome _was_ on the other side, knocking on his bedroom door, asking to be let in. Jeremiah loses track of how long he had sat on the floor, arms wrapped around legs as he regrets his deplorable decisions, his unforgiving words, his apathetic coldness, but when the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut reverberates through the walls of his living space, seeping into his bedroom through the slit underneath his door, he knows that Jerome is gone for good, and Jeremiah breaks down in tears. His lips quiver uncontrollably. His vision blurs. His shoulders begin to shake violently as his beating heart is mercilessly ripped apart by the harshness of his reality. It’s irreparable. It’s ruined. He’s never felt more alone. ****  
** **

Hours pass and night morphs into day. Morning light, an unwanted visitant, pours into his room, trespassing through unveiled panels of glass. The straining muscles in his hunched back ache, yet Jeremiah refuses to move, accepting pain as it is, because he deserves it.  ****  
** **

He did this to the both of them.  ****  
** **

_“We needed the fucking money, and you couldn’t work! What the fuck was I supposed to do?!”_ ****  
** **

It’s all his fault. As difficult as it is to swallow, it will never cease to be true.  ****  
** **

_“It’s my fucking responsibility to take care of you and I did everything that I could!”_ ****  
** **

Jerome was forced into this life, undeniably, by Jeremiah’s own bare hands. Consumed and ravaged by irrepressible self-loathing and hegemonizing abhorrence, he’d lost control, mind caving with despair, and thus, making a redundant burden out of himself to his brother for years to come. If only he’d listened. If only he’d stayed indoors. If only he had known. Suddenly, his airway constricts at a memory, and Jeremiah struggles to breathe as odious tendrils of disgust latch onto him, writhing and crawling under his skin, digging like maggots through his flesh. His breath catches in his throat. He’s filthy. He calls out for his brother.

****

~~~~

****

“Is it just me, Master Bruce, or is the city becoming more dangerous to live in?” ****  
** **

Bruce halts in his steps, turning sideways to face his old friend. “I would argue that it’s always been the same,” he remarks, approaching Alfred in the living room, “What are you watching?” ****  
** **

“The news,” Alfred says, “It baffles me that a young man of twenty-two could be charged with such heinous crimes.” ****  
** **

Bruce stands by his side as they watch the breaking broadcast of Theo Galavan’s suspected involvement in drug trafficking and distribution of narcotics after the seizing of multiple crates of illegal substances at Dixon Docks on Thursday night. The remand is seen escorted by the police, exuding audacious calmness as he walks through an overwhelming swamp of hounding reporters, smiling as he answers questions thrown at his direction with suave. A repugnant sight to Bruce. Theo Galavan’s display of charm, one of his many attempts of appealing to the public, won’t save him from conviction, for justice will prevail.  ****  
** **

The phone in his pocket rings. With eyes fixated on the news, Bruce answers, frowning immediately at the familiar yet unexpectedly distressed voice in his ear. ****  
** **

“B-Bruce?” ****  
** **

“Jeremiah, what happened?” He murmurs, distancing himself from Alfred, “Are you okay?” ****  
** **

“I-I’m sorry, are yo-” His voice is trembling. A discernible sniffle sounds. “I don’t know if i-it’s too much to ask, but could you come over? I don’t… Bruce, I d-don’t know what to do.”  ****  
** **

His gut twists at the heart-wrenching despair in Jeremiah’s voice, at the realization that the other is, actually, sobbing, but before Bruce could supplicate any further, a facial composite is released by the authorities, plastering across the fairly large television screen, bearing incredible resemblance to Jerome Valeska, now a wanted fugitive in Gotham with a bounty on his name.  ****  
** **

“Text me where you are,” Bruce utters, “I’m on my way.” ****  
** **

It’s a safer bet, asking directly for Jeremiah’s address. Due to the fear of arousing unwanted suspicion against himself, Bruce is aware of the fact that he mustn’t act solely based on Selina’s information, being the address to Jeremiah’s apartment, to which she’d gotten from risking her own safety to stalk his twin whilst he was returning home. To this day, Bruce still considers it a reckless initiative on her part.  ****  
** **

Their call ends. ****  
** **

“Is everything alright?”  ****  
** **

“I’m heading out, Alfred,” Bruce informs as he heads towards the garage, “Don’t wait up on me.”

****

~~~~

****

“Hey, Valeska, you’re on the news.” ****  
** **

Turning away from the wide panel of glass stretching across the room, Jerome struts towards his group of ‘business’ partners by the TV, a switchblade twirling within the grasp of his fingers as a cheshire grin spreads across his face. ****  
** **

“It looks like I’m the star of the show, Greenwood.” ****  
** **

Well, ain’t life fair.

****

~~~~

****

The doorbell rings in the apartment, yet the door doesn’t open. ****  
** **

“Jeremiah?” He calls out, banging his fist on the door, “Open up, it’s me.” ****  
** **

The tenant doesn’t respond. ****  
** **

“Jeremiah!”  ****  
** **

A click sounds, prompting Bruce to pull back as the door opens before him, and there, a forlorned Jeremiah stands. His hair, disarrayed, pendent strands of red trailing over the side of his forehead. Those eyes, once bright and spirited, now anguished and puffed behind the lenses of his glasses, its frame resting crookedly against the bridge of his nose. What stands before Bruce echoes melancholy and arrant dejection. ****  
** **

“Jeremiah?” ****  
** **

The other boy’s lower lip begins to quiver and Bruce finds himself embracing a shaking frame, his hands running in comforting circles against a rigid back, murmuring words of reassurance as Jeremiah’s fingers crumple the fabric of his shirt. ****  
** **

“It’s okay,” Bruce solaces, “You’re okay.”  ****  
** **

Jeremiah utters nothing in response. Instead, he chokes back an uncontrollable sob, body convulsing slightly under Bruce’s arms as he struggles to suppress his emotions, in which Bruce could only imagine to be clawing at him, vying to be let out.

“I’m here, Jeremiah,” Bruce promises as he hears another muffled sob in his ear, “I’m here.” ****  
** **

It takes a short while coaxing him to rest, but Jeremiah eventually agrees to retreat to his bedroom for some shut-eye, during which time, Bruce had offered to help clean the miniscule mess in his living room, returning books to their original shelves, rearranging props to declutter open spaces, and so forth. Concomitantly, he couldn’t help but throw occasional glances at the direction of Jerome’s bedroom, an overpowering need to investigate brewing in his gut. ****  
** **

Bruce recalls when the newscaster had, earlier in the morning, read his harrowing charges aloud. How cruel and malign were his actions. How frightening was his lack of conscious. How drastically different he is as opposed to his twin brother. It’s equitable to assume - no, to believe - that the cut on his temple, a reminder of that devastating day of falling bodies, is a by-product of Jerome’s atrocities, which raises an unpalatable question, one that troubles Bruce most of all.  ****  
** **

Did Jeremiah know? ****  
** **

Bruce finds himself glowering at the closed door of Jerome’s bedroom. The possibility of him knowing _is_ highly plausible, considering the repetitive instances where Bruce had caught Jeremiah staring, though it could’ve also been due to the fact that his injury may simply be fairly distracting to some. Nevertheless, now’s not the right time to pry. As curious as he is to learn what hides behind that intriguing door, Bruce respectfully stays within his boundaries. ****  
** **

His eyes dart towards the clock on the wall. It’s almost noon.  ****  
** **

Slowly, Bruce approaches the other bedroom, noting the calm rise and fall of Jeremiah’s side as he rests in bed, his back facing the doorway. He knocks thrice. As the other boy shifts, turning his head around with a questioning gaze, Bruce naturally puts on a smile as he steps into the room.  ****  
** **

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks, “Do you want anything to eat?” ****  
** **

“I’m not hungry,” Jeremiah utters softly as he puts his glasses on, “Sorry.” ****  
** **

With a sigh, Bruce shakes his head at the other boy’s knack for superfluous apologies. It’s, at times, frustrating, yet strangely adorable, depending on the occasion. He notices Jeremiah’s confusion as the redhead sits up awkwardly, pushing himself against the headboard to rest his back. “You don’t have to apologize for everything,” Bruce reminds him, recalling to the time when he’d once said that, after their lips had brushed for the first time, “You said you’d stop, remember?” ****  
** **

He nods, slowly. ****  
** **

“Not everything is your fault, Jeremiah, even if you feel like it is.” ****  
** **

“I honestly find that difficult to believe, sometimes.” ****  
** **

“And why is that?” Bruce asks as he sits at the edge of the bed. Much to his relief, the swollen bags beneath Jeremiah’s eyes have subsided a great degree. His distraught, ostensibly alleviated.  ****  
** **

“Perhaps it’s due to the fact that I could’ve done better,” Jeremiah shrugs tiredly, “As is work, so is life. There’s always room for improvement in every aspect of any situation, and if I’d known better, if I had done or said something that could’ve averted-” ****  
** **

“How would you know better if it hasn’t happened?” Bruce interrupts suddenly, rendering him speechless. The redhead darts his eyes away. “I get why you do this, Jeremiah. Believe me, I do. Granted, you’re not the only one, but you seem to do it more often than anyone else I know.” ****  
** **

“Like I said about worrying too much, Bruce, I can’t help it,” Jeremiah insists, eyes downcasted, “I… You don’t understand, Bruce. You won’t.” ****  
** **

“I can if you’ll let me.” With that, Bruce reaches out, squeezing lightly at Jeremiah’s knee. A comforting gesture. “You can tell me anything, Jeremiah. Whatever it is, if I’m capable of helping, I will. You can trust me.” ****  
** **

Wordlessly, the other boy nods, eyes fixated at the fidgeting fingers on his lap. His heart, undoubtedly, aches, witnessing Jeremiah in this upsetting state. Broken down and lost, it’s discomforting, seeing how fragile he is, how vulnerable he can be. Leaning in, Bruce runs his fingertips along Jeremiah’s cheek as he presses his lips against his forehead, lingering a few seconds longer before drawing back to rest a palm against his neck. ****  
** **

“I’ll get you some water,” Bruce offers as he steps away from the bed. ****  
** **

Once again, coming face to face with the mysterious door across the living room, Bruce ignores its strange magnetic pull and hurries towards the sink, grabbing an empty glass while on his way. He sighs internally. It’d be unwise to probe about Jerome at this time, wouldn’t it? As current circumstances present, bringing up the fugitive on the run would, unequivocally, be detrimental to Jeremiah’s already fragile state of mind. Clearly, Bruce couldn’t do that to him. As he turns off the tap, a loud banging against the apartment’s front door startles him, followed by the familiar voice of Detective James Gordon as he shouts authoritatively from the outside. ****  
** **

“GCPD, open up!” ****  
** **

Hurrying out of his bedroom, Jeremiah freezes like a deer in headlights. ****  
** **

“It’s okay, Jeremiah,” Bruce quickly reassures, “You’ll be fine.” ****  
** **

“I-I’m so sorry, Bruce. I… I should’ve known,” Jeremiah stutters, “I didn’t mean to drag you into this. You shouldn’t be here.” ****  
** **

The banging on the door only grows louder. ****  
** **

“I’m sure they’re just here to ask about Jerome,” Bruce says, “Don’t worry about me.” ****  
** **

“How did you kno-” ****  
** **

“Open the door!” ****  
** **

“You may not know this, but your brother’s all over the news this morning, Jeremiah,” he elaborates, moving cautiously towards the rattling door, “I’ll get it, okay? Just stay calm.” ****  
** **

To say that Bruce isn’t anxious would be mendacious, considering who’s on the other side. The detective. The righteous lawman. The faithful friend of his father’s. The one person who will, indubitably, notify Thomas Wayne of Bruce’s consociation with Jeremiah Valeska, twin brother of one of Gotham’s most wanted criminals. God, he’s so dead. Preparing himself for an outburst, Bruce grasps at the handle and swings the door open, revealing his presence to two gawking detectives and their equally flabbergasted accompanying officers.  ****  
** **

Immediately, Jim Gordon frowns.  ****  
** **

“ _Wayne_ ?” Harvey Bullock calls out, eyes widening with bewilderment. ****  
** **

“Gentlemen,” Bruce smiles politely, stepping back as he widens the door, “Please come in. I’m sorry if it took a while. I was preoccupied.” ****  
** **

As though frozen in place, Gordon questions, his features perplexed, “What are you doing here?” ****  
** **

“Consoling a friend,” Bruce simply states. ****  
** **

“Hello, Detective Gordon,” Jeremiah greets, back slightly hunched as he extends his arm, “I’m Jeremiah, but I-I’m sure you already know that.” ****  
** **

“Yeah,” Gordon eyes him suspiciously as he extends his own, “I do.” ****  
** **

Stepping forward with a scowl on his face, one that’s noticeably directed at Jeremiah, much to Bruce’s unease, Harvey holds up in his hand a warrant, signalling his officers to enter the apartment without tearing his eyes away from the Valeska twin. “We’re here to search the vicinity for anything to be used as evidence against your brother and his employer,” Harvey informs, a detesting tone in his voice, “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind us taking a look around for the afternoon?” ****  
** **

“No, of course not,” Jeremiah remains calm, “Do as you need to. If you need anything else, feel free to ask.” ****  
** **

“Yeah, well, we’ve got a few questions for you as well,” Harvey remarks, “Where to?” ****  
** **

“Right this way, detective,” Jeremiah complies, leading his unexpected guests to the living room. A sudden distinctive clang sounds from Jerome’s bedroom, and Bruce tosses his head around, peering from afar as officers search within those four walls. In his gut, the brewing urge to investigate returns. If only, Bruce thinks. Tearing his eyes away, he follows the others to the couch, settling wordlessly by Jeremiah’s side before the other boy shifts slightly, scooting closer until their knees touch, briefly and occasionally. Gordon clears his throat. His disapproval clear as day on his face. ****  
** **

“What would you like to know, gentlemen?” asks Jeremiah. ****  
** **

“Where’d you two come from?” Harvey suggests, “Let’s start there.” ****  
** **

“Very well,” Jeremiah nods, and, strangely, Bruce notices a subtle change in his demeanor, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it for some odd reason, “Jerome and I were born and raised in Haly’s Circus, a travelling show where our mother worked as a snake charmer to put food on our tables. At eighteen, we left and moved here.” ****  
** **

“Why’d you leave?” ****  
** **

“The circus life wasn’t made for us.” ****  
** **

“How is your relationship with your brother, Jeremiah?” Gordon asks suddenly. ****  
** **

“Not as well as I’d hoped,” Jeremiah says, causing Bruce to turn his head, “See, we were always different, Jerome and I. From an early age, I showed proficiency for maths and design, and Jerome mainly the mutilation of alley cats. Throughout the years, however, we’ve learned to make things work between us.” ****  
** **

“What about his activities? Namely, his association with Theo Galavan, distribution of narcotics, drug trafficking, the murders,” Gordon questions, “Did you know about them?” ****  
** **

“Vaguely,” Jeremiah answers, “Initially, I’ve had my suspicions regarding the origins of his income, making my mistake of confronting him about it once. He held a blade to my throat and I’ve never asked again.” ****  
** **

“Brother of the year,” Harvey snorts rudely, and Bruce frowns instantly at the unnecessary jab. Jeremiah, on the contrary, seems unbothered. ****  
** **

“So, in retrospect, you knew,” Detective Gordon’s lips twist with disapprobation, “Let me be clear that you can be charged with misprision of felony as well as aiding and abetting a crime for knowing but not reporting of your brother’s plans to the authorities.” ****  
** **

“I understand that, but could the authorities have guaranteed for my safety from my brother if I were to rat him out, detective?” Jeremiah straightens in his seat, “I’m assuming that you know more of Jerome’s grotesque handiwork than I do since you’ve seen them firsthand and I mostly find out through the news, but I know what he’s capable of. There’s not a place for me to hide in Gotham, so I had no choice but to conceal.” ****  
** **

“Sounds like you’ve got it rough with your psychopathic twin, doesn’t it?” Harvey decides to chip in, his tone mocking, “So, why live together?” ****  
** **

“It was at his request,” Jeremiah answers quietly, “We’re family. At the end of the day, we’re all that we have.” ****  
** **

With every word spewed - those especially traced with falsification - Bruce’s scepticism only grows. To his knowledge, although limited, certain truths _do_ appear fabricated, some even contradictory, but Jeremiah couldn’t be lying to the detectives, could he? Admittedly, the features on his face indicate nothing to Bruce, resembling a calm exterior that could raise no flags in the detectives’ minds, but come to think of it, he _is_ indeed too calm, and that doesn’t quite match the timid Jeremiah that he’s come to know, and fall for.  ****  
** **

“So, tell me about last night,” Gordon changes the topic, “Did he mention anything about the shipment at Dixon Docks? Or where he’s going after?” ****  
** **

“No,” Jeremiah shakes his head, “It’s not likely of Jerome to share any details of his work with me. I’m sorry, detective, but I wish I could be of more help.” ****  
** **

With that, Harvey scoffs out loud with irritation. “Man, there’s something about this guy that’s fishy.” ****  
** **

“I beg your pardon?” ****  
** **

“Yeah, you heard me.” ****  
** **

In silence, Bruce couldn’t help but agree. ****  
** **

“Much like roommates who have no interest in getting to know each other, _that_ is Jerome and I,” Jeremiah insists, “We may be brothers by blood, but we’re nothing but acquaintances living under the same accursed roof.” ****  
** **

That’s an outright lie. ****  
** **

“So, you don’t know where he is?” Harvey taunts, leaning forward as he interrogates. ****  
** **

“Perhaps you should work on your listening skills, detective,” Jeremiah replies derisively, “All I know is that Jerome took off in the middle of the night and I woke up to seeing his face plastered on every news channel this morning. Considering the incomparable efficiency of the GCPD, I wouldn’t be incorrect to assume that you’ve already brought Theo Galavan in for questioning, so why don’t you ask him instead?” ****  
** **

“Oh, we will,” Harvey sneers, “Don’t you worry about that.” ****  
** **

“That’s enough, Harvey,” Gordon interjects. Dazed, Bruce mirrors as the detective suddenly stands from the couch, bringing the somewhat taxing session to an end.  ****  
** **

“Hey, we’re not done yet,” Harvey protests. ****  
** **

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Gordon says, glancing only once at Bruce as he shakes Jeremiah’s hand, “We’ll be in touch if anything else comes up. In the meantime, we’ll be looking around the apartment before we go.” ****  
** **

“Please,” the other boy nods, “Take your time.” ****  
** **

Without sparing another look, Gordon walks away, and Bruce watches silently as the detective converses with one of the officers outside Jerome’s bedroom. Granted, there’s still time to come up with a good excuse before news reaches his father’s ears. That, or tell the truth, because either way, Bruce is beyond screwed. He’d falsely promised his father to stay out of the mess that revolves around Theo Galavan, so once Gordon tells on him, it’ll be the end of Bruce. Figuratively speaking. A distracting palm rests lightly onto his shoulder, and Bruce turns, finding Jeremiah’s face inches away from his, somewhat resonating familiarity once again. ****  
** **

“You should go,” he murmurs to Bruce, to which he instantly shakes his head. ****  
** **

“I’m staying,” Bruce insists, and the other boy sighs. ****  
** **

As the evening rolls in, the detectives leave with their entourage, uttering not a single word more to the both of them, and Bruce watches as the redhead carefully shuts the door, locking the apartment with a resounding click. As expected, the hunch on his back returns. The abnormal composure he’d held in the presence of the GCPD, all but vanished. As the boy turns around, he resumes fidgeting with his fingers, evidently disconcerted.  ****  
** **

This is the ‘Jeremiah’ that he knows. ****  
** **

“You lied,” Bruce utters all of a sudden, standing a few feet away, “Why?” ****  
** **

Jeremiah looks up, perplexed. “Bruce, I… I thought you’d understand,”  ****  
** **

“Jeremiah, your brother is a wanted fugitive. You can’t hide him forever.” ****  
** **

“I’m not _hiding_ him,” the other states, pulling back in offense at the apparent accusation, “Bruce, I don’t know where he is. That _is_ the truth.” ****  
** **

“I know that you’re trying to protect Jerome, but lying is far from helping your own case,” Bruce scolds, “And using my words as your own? That’s uncalled for, Jeremiah.” ****  
** **

“I didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry, Bruce, but I had to make things seem believable.” ****  
** **

“Why?” Bruce questions, “Why would you need to do that?” ****  
** **

“For one, I’m his twin. Technically, the odds are already stacked against me,” Jeremiah argues, a deep sigh escaping his throat, “Do you seriously think that they’ll believe me, Bruce? That they’ll buy the fact that Jerome and I are nothing alike?” ****  
** **

“Have faith, Jeremiah.” ****  
** **

“I can assure you that they won’t,” the other insists, “I did what I had to do. Distancing myself from my twin is the only way to maintain my innocence, Bruce.” ****  
** **

With that, it renders him speechless.  ****  
** **

His internal turmoil grows. He understands Jeremiah’s situation, truly, but at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to agree with Jeremiah’s choice of lying to the authorities through his teeth. In the unfortunate event in which Gordon finds out - an inescapable eventuality - the consequences for Jeremiah, having not gained the trust that he deserves through unabridged veracity, will prove to be severe.  ****  
** **

Bruce hears his name. A broken voice, and Jeremiah stands before him with slumped shoulders. Bruce sighs. He doesn’t know what else to say. “I understand...” Admittedly, he doesn’t wish to leave on a bad note, to leave Jeremiah brooding all alone in an empty apartment. He glances at the clock on the wall. Knowing Detective Gordon, the news have probably reach his father by now. It's time to leave.

“It’s late,” he mutters, “I should probably get going.” ****  
** **

Before Bruce could react, Jeremiah steps forward, enveloping him with his arms as he buries his face into Bruce’s neck, murmuring never-ending apologies into his ear. His eyelids flutter shut. He’d missed this. The closeness between them. Out of pure impulsiveness, Bruce presses himself further against Jeremiah’s body, being more forceful than usual. He wants more. God, he _does_ , but Bruce knows that he shouldn’t.  ****  
** **

It’s late.  ****  
** **

He draws in a sharp breath as wet lips suddenly press against the skin of his neck, and he immediately pulls away, only to have Jeremiah’s arms hold his body firmly in place.

“Don’t,” Bruce whispers, eyes downcasted at the other’s alluring lips, lingering. He’s weak. His protest, feeble. He doesn’t fight when Jeremiah leans in to capture his lips with his own, gasping at the warmth seeping through his mouth as he parts his lips. 

In the heat of the moment, Bruce gives in to the kiss.

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

In the heat of the moment, Bruce gives in to more than just a kiss. ****  
** **

Groping, tugging, pulling, bruising. With fists balled at handfuls of red, Bruce crashes their lips together, savoring the taste of the other and relishing the wet warmth of tongue against tongue in bona fide bliss. The day’s toiling events, however, remain lingering in the back of his disoriented mind. The confounding shift in Jeremiah’s character in the eyes of authority had left him disconcerted, yet Bruce is hardly estranged. Undoubtedly, he’s conflicted, but remains confident in his judgement that Jeremiah is  _ nothing  _ like his brother, and he’ll prove it - to Detective Gordon, to his father, to Selena, to everyone else - because Jeremiah  _ is  _ different. ****  
** **

A guttural moan accompanied by a sharp intake of breath sounds as Bruce bites down harshly at the other’s lower lip, melting as a sudden almost burning touch of Jeremiah’s palm on his neck sends shivers running down his spine. He can’t leave now. He  _ can’t  _ stop now. Fingers coiling around the collar of Jeremiah’s shirt, Bruce hastily shoves him backwards, causing both of them to stumble on imbalanced feet as he leads them into  _ their _ bedroom. ****  
** **

It’s unlike Bruce to be rash, but as lust clouds over his unfettered mind, the possibility of pushing any boundaries too far, along with its uncertain deriving consequences, fails to register. With every grip and grasp of Jeremiah’s desperate hands, it reminds him of that one hauntingly unforgettable incident that had, at times, kept him restless at night, much to his mild discontent. ****  
** **

_ As he moved teasingly, Jeremiah crashed their lips together, shoving his tongue to the back of Bruce’s throat, as though he’d intended to take him now in this very stall. The younger bit back the whine threatening to escape his throat, his mind blacking out at the torture, the pleasure. At long last, when the sound of the door shutting echoed through the restroom, signifying the return of their privacy, Bruce clutched breathlessly onto broad shoulders, moaning out loud as Jeremiah slammed him against the cubicle wall over and over again.  _ ****  
** **

The risqué memory had kept him wanting, and needing. ****  
** **

With trembling hands, Bruce’s breath hitches when he pushes Jeremiah onto his bed, his own knee sinking into the soft mattress as he rests his weight upon it. The sun is setting, judging by the depleting light gleaming through unveiled windows, gently kissing the flushed skin of Jeremiah’s face and white pristine cotton sheets. As his face hovers merely inches above the other boy’s, Bruce studies the alluring curve of Jeremiah’s glistening red lips, swallowing visibly as he carefully removes the pair of nerdy glasses… and his breathing halts there and then at the unexpectedly discomfiting sight beneath him. ****  
** **

Perhaps, discomfiting isn’t the right term, but neither is alarming.  ****  
** **

Technically, it shouldn’t have been either, because the Valeskas  _ are _ , after all, identical. Being this close in proximity, natheless, is bizarrely more off-putting than he had imagined. A strange tugging at his gut warns him that  _ this _ is a mistake, the intimacy, the closeness - his shameless avidity, an overt infelicity - but to hell with it, Bruce reckons. He knows who this is, and _ it isn’t Jerome _ . ****  
** **

Diving in, Bruce captures his lips once more, drawing in a shaky breath as Jeremiah’s arms wrap around his waist to crush their bodies flush together. A soft moan escapes. Fingers raking up along the back of Jeremiah’s neck, Bruce grinds shamelessly, his dazed mind imploding from an incontestable lust. At this point, a question of what self-control is begs to be answered, to which the boy, in return, pays no heed. With fingers tracing along a sharp jawline, he licks eagerly into Jeremiah’s mouth, dipping him into soft sheets as he takes charge. To hell with everything - it’s the last projected thought before his mind goes blank, and his hand travels south to the other boy’s crotch, ripping from Jeremiah a delicious mix of a startled gasp and a broken whimper. ****  
** **

“ _ Bruce… _ ” ****  
** **

As Jeremiah chokes out his name - once, and twice, then thrice - Bruce gets bolder, sliding his hand under the waistband of the other boy’s boxers, to which Jeremiah reacts by jerking away abruptly, hand flying out to grasp almost painfully at Bruce’s wrist, startling the younger. Immediately, he pulls back, meeting green bewildered eyes that are, at the same time, darkened with pure want and desire.  ****  
** **

“Bruce, wait...” Jeremiah pants breathlessly, “I… I don’t know if I can do this.” ****  
** **

He freezes. Given the day’s inauspicious events and its toll on Jeremiah’s emotional state, Bruce wonders if he’d been pushing it a bit too far. Come to think of it, he may have been. “Would you… I mean, do you want to stop?”  ****  
** **

“I… N-no… I don’t want to...” ****  
** **

He nods with understanding. “Okay,” whispers Bruce, pressing his lips at the side of the other boy’s mouth, “We’ll take it slow. Just do what feels good, Jeremiah.” He twists his fingers, tugging at red hair, almost encouragingly. “Do whatever you want with me.” ****  
** **

A sparkle of fire ignites at the touch of their lips, the graze of teeth against delicate skin, and Bruce gasps out at the sudden pressure against his hardened cock as Jeremiah arches his back, holding Bruce in place by his hips as he moves. It’s surreal. The thought of them  _ alone  _ in an empty apartment - interruptions of the outside world, begone - is devilishly exhilarating. A catalyst it becomes to Bruce’s immensely growing impatience, and without much more thought, he reaches for the button of Jeremiah’s trousers, tugging his fly down only to have the redhead stop him once again. Wordlessly, Bruce lifts his head, frozen as he anticipates verbal consent, and without warning, Jeremiah surges forward, flipping him over, pinning Bruce on his back against the soft bed as he kneels between his legs. The younger melts into the warmth of lips pressing against his own, arms hooking around the older’s neck, holding him close. ****  
** **

The repetitive ticking of the bedroom clock sounds as trembling hands work under the hem of his shirt to reveal a bare torso to cold evening air. His skin burns as Jeremiah leaves a trail of wet kisses - of sucking, and lapping, and biting - from Bruce’s neck to his chest, down to his navel. A broken gasp escapes. It’s too much, yet contemporaneously not enough. It’s pleasurable, yet, at the same time, it’s also just simply torturous. With a swift pull, Jeremiah yanks his pants to his knees, to which Bruce impatiently kicks away, ridding himself of the momentarily unfavorable garment, a veritable excitement brewing passionately in his gut.  ****  
** **

Pressing a kiss atop the younger’s forehead, Jeremiah then pushes himself away, and Bruce watches quietly with unpronounced anticipation as the older reaches towards his bedside drawer. At the shift of disproportionate weight, the mattress dips sideways. His breath hitches as the coarse fabric of Jeremiah’s trousers grazes against the naked skin of his inner thighs, and Bruce’s system malfunctions completely, the mechanics of breathing most prominently affected, when Jeremiah returns with a bottle in hand, his fingers settling onto the waistband of his boxers, pausing hesitantly as their tips brush against Bruce’s skin. To his surprise, Jeremiah holds back, breathing haggardly. His fingers twitch, tugging at the fabric but goes no further. Confused, Bruce props himself up by the elbows, caressing Jeremiah’s cheek as he asks if something’s wrong. ****  
** **

“Are we going too fast, Bruce?” ****  
** **

The undisguised uncertainty in Jeremiah’s voice prompts Bruce to sit up, the bed creaking as he gradually kneels in front of the other boy, planting a reassuring kiss on his lips. In a hushed voice, Bruce inquires. “Is that the only thing bothering you?” To which, Jeremiah replies with silence. “To answer your question, I don’t think that we are,” Bruce admits, shifting his attention to the other boy’s jaw, “Not after the last time.”  ****  
** **

“What do you mean?”  ****  
** **

A shaky breath escapes Jeremiah’s throat as Bruce travels to his neck, sucking and nibbling at the sensitive spot beneath his ear whilst hands roam from collarbone to chest, running a thumb over his nipple, experimentally, to elicit a soft moan from the redhead. “What you did in the restroom on campus,” Bruce reminds him, licking a wet stripe along the other side of Jeremiah’s neck, whispering hotly into his ear, “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”  ****  
** **

It is a confession of sins.  _ His _ own sins.  ****  
** **

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Bruce struggles internally to keep his composure, “I still can’t...” ****  
** **

Catching on, the other boy tenses.  ****  
** **

“I’ve never wanted anyone more, Jeremiah.” ****  
** **

The lust only grows. Teeth sinking anxiously into his lower lip, Bruce attempts to explore further, pushing his hand pass the band of Jeremiah’s garment, and he does so slowly as to allow Jeremiah the choice of pulling back if he ever so intends to. It doesn’t happen. Instead, Jeremiah allows it, panting breathlessly as Bruce’s slender fingers curl to wrap around the length of his erection, his own eyelids fluttering shut, tightly, at the salacious sensation.  ****  
** **

“ _ God, Bruce _ ...” ****  
** **

“I’ve never needed anyone more.” ****  
** **

The boy crashes their lips together, muffling Jeremiah’s moans as he begins stroking him, running a thumb over the leaking slit, and gasping momentarily at the wetness of pre-cum dampening his pollex. A sudden yelp is ripped from Bruce when the older yanks his head back by handfuls of black hair, shoving in a warm tongue through Bruce’s parted lips, filling the gap in his mouth. Consumed by a burning passion coursing through their veins, it’s as if time has stopped, ceasing to exist much like the rest of the world and everything else in it. It’s as though nothing else matters but the intertwining of their limbs, bodies, and souls. Neither hears the honking of a vehicle racing through the street outside the apartment, nor the almost muted shutting of a neighbor’s door behind the bedroom wall, nor the repetitive ticking of Jeremiah’s clock that has faded into non-existence as Bruce bites down harshly at Jeremiah’s lips, eliciting a pained sound from the other’s throat. ****  
** **

“ _ B-Bruce _ …” ****  
** **

“ _ Please _ ...” Bruce pants into Jeremiah’s mouth, still worshipping the cock in his hand, and, without any remaining ounce of shame in his being, the boy gulps, and he pleads, “ _ Fuck me _ .” ****  
** **

As his lascivious impetration registers, Jeremiah stiffens with his mouth agape, withdrawing to meet Bruce’s gaze, and the boy lets his hand fall from the waistband of Jeremiah’s boxers. A second passes by, then two, then three. Upon the fourth, Bruce is roughly shoved backwards, landing on the mattress with a resounding thud. At the fifth, an uncapping of a bottle sounds, and as Bruce rids himself of his remaining clothes, Jeremiah slicks his trembling fingers with lube, freezing abruptly only when glancing up at Bruce, beholding, with a hitch in his breath, the glorious spectacle exhibited before him. At a loss for words, Jeremiah marvels at the dishevelled raven-haired boy in his bed, naked as the eyes could see, his chest heaving heavily with an unambiguous excitement, yearning to be used, begging to be fucked.  ****  
** **

Bruce instinctively grasps at the bedsheet as Jeremiah spreads his legs apart - unceremonious in his actions - displaying a telling impatience when he immediately takes all of Bruce into his mouth, worshipping his cock marvellously as though he’s done so a million times before, and Bruce groans wantonly at the all too sudden pleasure, cursing under his breath as the other boy swallows at his length. Gripping at red locks, Bruce couldn’t help but thrust, just once, into Jeremiah’s mouth, revelling at the feel of his cock hitting against the back of his throat, and the redhead moans. Then, fingers dig into his thighs as Bruce moves fervently, thrusting repeatedly into delicious warmth, coating his shaft with spit. ****  
** **

Haggardly, Bruce calls out his name. Lost in ecstasy. It’s all too much.  _ Too good _ . It leaves him desiring, thirsting for more. Blinded by hot pleasure, Bruce doesn’t spot Jeremiah’s finger circling his entrance before pushing in without warning, and the sudden intrusion rips a jolted scream from the younger’s throat, followed by a soft broken moan as the older begins stretching him open. Head thrown back, the boy arches at the slight pain and discomfort that fades a little more with each merciless probe. He loses track of time, his surroundings, and himself as another wave of pleasure washes over his being, and when one finger is replaced by two, it sets him on fire, his skin burning with every touch. It’s too early to be resolved into a sweating mess, yet it’s inexorable when Jeremiah had shoved two fingers inside him, scissoring him open, angling just right to graze  _ that _ spot, making Bruce moan and shudder like never before. At the addition of a third finger, Bruce’s senses plunge into overdrive, losing all integrity and savoir faire as the unrestrained noises escaping him hold an uncanny resemblance to that of a promiscuous whore. ****  
** **

“ _ Oh, God _ …” The boy whines, “ _ More _ … _ Jeremiah, I need-nghhh!” _ ****  
** **

“Patience, Bruce. I-I don’t want to hurt you.” ****  
** **

He groans helplessly in protest, yet the other yields not. Neglected of said wishes, Bruce bites down in frustration at his lower lip. It’s all too much, but not enough. Too good _ ,  _ though it could’ve been better. The other boy, with his insistent proper care of Bruce, leaves him burning, craving, writhing for more. In good time, howbeit, Jeremiah, at long last, rips away his digits, dipping the bed with the shift of his weight as he manhandles the smaller boy by the thighs, spreading his legs apart, lining up against him. Little by little, the redhead pushes in.  ****  
** **

A tensing of muscles. An unabating stretch. A pained piteous whimper. His eyelids flutter shut, sealing impossibly tight. His nails digging into white cotton sheets. The ache. The pleasure. The tears welling in his eyes. The press of wet lips and grazing of tongue along his jaw, his neck, and his throat. A deep guttural groan, not one of his own. Bruce pants breathlessly, hooking his arms around Jeremiah’s neck as the other boy sinks deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until he’s fully sheathed. It’s everything Bruce had imagined it to be; those dwelling thoughts on lonely nights. It’s a confession of sins.  _ His _ own sins. As Jeremiah thrusts for the first time, Bruce irrepressibly cries out, burying his face against the nook of Jeremiah’s neck whilst fingernails dig into broad shoulders, dragging across skin. “ _ B-Bruce _ …  _ Oh, fuck _ …” He knows that he’s drawing blood, that the fact alone ought to bother him to a certain extent, but it doesn’t - not even the slightest bit - not when Jeremiah is fucking him relentlessly into the bed, and Bruce screams, prompting the other to desperately silence him with his lips. His insides burn with a fiery foreign passion. God, he needs more... He needs so much  _ fucking  _ more. Moving in rhythm, Bruce hungrily meets Jeremiah’s thrusts, slamming himself onto his cock at every given opportunity, his muffled moans growing louder, and louder, and  _ louder _ . ****  
** **

What was it, again? A promiscuous whore?  ****  
** **

Oh, the astounding obscenity.  _ So needy _ . As Jeremiah retracts from the seal of their lips, Bruce’s stifled noises escape, filling the bedroom with shameless moaning that's loud enough to induce a justified neighbor’s complaint. Albeit, Bruce disregards the inevitability. It’s far too late to give a damn, anyways. Bent in half, legs thrown over shoulders, sweat trickles down his temple as Jeremiah thrusts harder with every ounce of stamina in his body, headboard banging against the white bedroom wall, announcing to listening neighbors of their vociferous indecencies.  ****  
** **

“ _ Fuck, fuck, fuck... _ ” Bruce chokes out, fingers wrapping around his own throbbing cock, “ _ Harder, Jeremiah, p-please!” _ ****  
** **

The bed creaks - a crude raucous to impelled ears - as Jeremiah sets a brutal pace. It's everything Bruce had imagined it to be; those dwelling thoughts on lonely nights of losing control, of subjecting himself to dissolute impurities and of reckless debauchery, of strong callous hands pinning him down as Jeremiah ruthlessly fucks him until he screams. He’s close. He’s  _ so _ close… A few more punishing thrusts are all it takes, and Bruce chokes inaudibly on his breaths, body shuddering with pleasure so immense that his mind blacks out for a fleeting moment as he comes, making an unapologetic mess out of himself and of his lover. Stars riddle the darkness that envelops him post-climax, and Bruce cries out in pain as teeth sinks into his neck, marking him,  _ claiming _ him.  ****  
** **

His eyes snap open. ****  
** **

Decorating an unornamented ceiling, shadows of tree branches and leaves dance with the gentle night breeze. Arching his back, Bruce clutches weakly onto broad shoulders as Jeremiah rams into him over and over again, the sound of skin slapping against skin reverberating through four walls as he chases his own release, burying his throbbing cock for one last time as he fills him to the brim with hot seed. An involuntary jolt courses through the boy's system like electricity. Bruce whimpers as Jeremiah’s fingernails dig hard enough into his hips to break skin. A distant muffled shutting of a door sounds, accompanied by the other’s labored breaths as Jeremiah leans in to press a kiss onto his lips, unhooking his legs before collapsing on top of him, crushing Bruce with his weight as he buries his face into the crook of his neck, and Bruce faintly hears Jeremiah whisper into his ear of words that would ignite a peculiar spark of ambivalence that pulls at his tangled heartstrings.  ****  
** **

"I love you, Bruce."

****

~~~~

****

It’s one of those cold mornings out in Gotham City. Bustling streets, preoccupied sidewalks,  _ yada yada _ ; the same old thing. Safe to say, nothing ever really changes in this stinking pile of garbage city, not even with the breaking broadcast of the ground-shaking news of Gotham’s potential mayor-to-be candidate, Theo Galavan, being suspected of affiliation and involvement with the mafia, not excluding the distribution of illegal substances as well as multiple cases of cold-blooded murders within and beyond the city. Also, how could one forget the ongoing manhunt for ‘an extremely dangerous’ and psychotic redhead currently on the loose? A handsome devil, that one. Adjusting his baseball cap, Jerome Valeska steps into a moving crowd, blending in, infusing himself with the busy pedestrians migrating through the city center, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. As expected, he braces through, unnoticed.  ****  
** **

A distant honking of a vehicle echoes through the narrow space of a grisly alley, one that exudes an appalling odour similar to that of a sewer reputedly harboring dead rats. A minute more to go, he hopes. One could only endure such putrid whiffs for so long. About forty seconds later, Jerome hears an unmistakable shuffling of feet behind the rusting metal backdoor, and as it opens to reveal one of the few people in this wretched city who he could rely on, Jerome beams instantaneously. “Hey, doll face,” he greets happily.  ****  
** **

To his surprise, his friend’s grip on the door noticeably tightens, and Jerome’s heart sinks with a sudden realization. “What do you want, Jerome?” Ecco questions warily, peeking through the gap from behind the door, knuckles whitening. ****  
** **

Jerome swallows anxiously. “I… I just came to check up on you,” he says, smile faltering with every word, “We probably won’t be seeing each other for a while, so I figured, you know...” ****  
** **

“You shouldn’t be here,” Ecco breathes out, “The cops are looking for you all over the city.” ****  
** **

“I know,” Jerome naturally steps forward towards his friend, only to stop dead in his tracks when Ecco flinches visibly at his precipitous approach, “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you… I need your help. As you can probably tell, I don’t have anyone else...” ****  
** **

“Jerome, I can’t get involved.” ****  
** **

“It’s nothing illegal, scout’s honor,” Jerome reassures, “I, um, I just need you to stop by at the apartment from time to time... You know, to watch over him or something. I’ve got a nagging feeling that he’d appreciate the company.” ****  
** **

The door creaks as it’s pushed further to reveal more than half of Ecco’s face. “You want me to help you look after Jeremiah?” ****  
** **

“Yup… See, that dunce has never been alone before, not like this,” Jerome lets out a small but strained laugh, rubbing circles at the back of his neck, “I’ve always been there, you know.  _ Always _ . And now that shit’s hit the fan, I just... Look, it won’t be any different from what you’ve always done on your own account, doll face, I promise.” ****  
** **

It’s a mere simple request. A silent moment of consideration flies by, and slowly but surely, his only friend unexpectedly shakes her head out of blatant refusal. ****  
** **

“Ecco, I-” ****  
** **

“No,” she simply states, “Just go, Jerome.” ****  
** **

“Could you at least hear me out?”  ****  
** **

“I don’t have to,” Ecco struggles to remain calm, meeting his eyes with dejection in hers, “You’ve been lying to me this entire time. Both you and your brother.” ****  
** **

“Okay, he doesn’t-” ****  
** **

“ _ Thieving  _ and  _ selling pills _ , that I could put with because you promised that you wouldn’t intentionally hurt them in any way and I was stupid enough to believe you,” she seethes through gritted teeth, words poisoned with anger and frustration, “When I heard the news, Jerome, I wanted to call, to ask if what they said was true, to find out if it’s all just a set-up by someone else, but… It’s all true, isn’t it? That’s what you really do for money.” ****  
** **

There’s no point denying it now, is there? Defeated, Jerome sighs. “Yes,” he nods, “but my brother’s got nothing to do with it. You have my word.” ****  
** **

“Don’t say that. Don’t lie to my face again.” ****  
** **

“I’m not,” persists Jerome, “I’m admitting that I, alone, fucked everything up. Whatever good that the three of us had, it’s all gone because of me and I’m sorry, but please, don’t take it out on him. If anything, he’s a victim as much as you are in this clusterfuck of a mess. You know that I hate getting on my knees, begging, but I will if that’s what it’ll take for you to reconsider. He’s helpless on his own. You know that.” ****  
** **

Silence. ****  
** **

“Please… I’m begging you.” ****  
** **

Silence. ****  
** **

“Please.” ****  
** **

Another pause takes place before shoulders slump in defeat, and Ecco draws out a tired sigh. “On one condition, and that is from this day onwards, you’ll stay away from me.” And his heart plunges into an irremediable abyss. “From the both of us.” Knowing not of what he should do, he contemplates wordlessly. “The GCPD is investigating everyone with a connection to you. It’s driving me mad, not knowing when it’ll finally be my turn.” Absentmindedly, he nods. “It’s best if we don’t see each other again.” ****  
** **

“So, you’re cutting ties, huh?” Jerome, at long last, finds his voice, and with more effort than usual, he pulls his lips into a strained smile, “That’s smart, doll face.” ****  
** **

“I’m graduating, Jerome. I’m starting a new chapter in life. I can’t throw that away.” ****  
** **

“I understand. Well, uh, your wish is my command. I’ll leave you two lovebirds be.” ****  
** **

“Thank you, Jerome.” ****  
** **

“Although, one more thing, before I forget,” Jerome adds lightly, forcing a casual tone in his voice, “Keep that Wayne kid away at all costs. Get rid of him, if you can. That good-for-nothing brat doesn’t exactly have ‘trustworthy’ stamped all over his forehead either.” ****  
** **

“What does that mean?” ****  
** **

“Let’s just say that Miah and I haven’t been on good terms ever since that little sucker showed up.”

****

~~~~

****

If there’s one thing that the GCPD lacks, considering all aspects that could have garnered a reputation of outstanding quality or calibre, it’s creativity. Raw. Immaculate. A trait (talent) so emblazoned and celebrated by individuals alike. In his humble opinion, these brain-dead cops could definitely benefit from a lesson or two, and to begin Creativity 101, let the first class commence, the objective being to revamp one of the establishment’s interrogation rooms, because, in all honesty, how could anyone handle being present in such a distastefully renovated facility? The walls are nothing but a dull resemblance of, well, nothing. It’s not arrogant of him to dismiss the aesthetic choices of those who’ve constructed the historical building, and it’s certainly not to scowl upon those who accepts the bland choice of color that covers the walls of the interrogation rooms. Once again, it’s not arrogance. He’s simply been stuck in the same chair behind the same desk in the middle of the same room for far too long. He’s agitated, and he’s bored out of his mind. Perhaps, a splash of yellow would add more vibrancy to the insipid environment. Though, he’d very much prefer it to be a splatter of guts, instead. A distinctive red of torn flesh, ripped intestines, and bloody remnants of bludgeoned scalps. If circumstances allow, Theo Galavan would, within a heartbeat, redecorate the walls of this entire building with the bits and blood of every cop in it. ****  
** **

“How much longer will you have me sit in this confinement, Detective Gordon?” ****  
** **

“For as long as it takes.” ****  
** **

“I stand by what I’ve said countless times before. There is nothing to confess. You’ve got the wrong man.” ****  
** **

“Stop bullshitting,” Detective Bullock rudely interjects, “We know what you did,  _ everyone  _ does, and, pal, I can’t wait to see the look on your face when we lock you up in Blackgate for good.” ****  
** **

“If that’s the case, then prove me guilty. Otherwise, I’m allowed to leave this dreadful place to resume my campaign. I  _ am _ running for mayor, after all. These are exceptionally busy times. I’m sure you’ll understand.” ****  
** **

“Not until we get what we need,” says Detective Gordon, clasping his hands together as he flashes a brief quirk of his lips, “Seeing that there’s still plenty of time, let’s start over from the beginning. Does Jerome Valeska work for you?” ****  
** **

Oh, the audacity of some people. ****  
** **

Gritting his teeth, Theo Galavan shifts his attention to the gold watch strapped around his wrist, repressing an outward sigh. Despite owning a reputation of being one of Gotham’s most prestigious attorneys, Harvey Dent had better have a good enough excuse for being twenty-five minutes late.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG THIS TOOK FOREVER! 
> 
> HELLO AGAIN! 
> 
> I hope you've been doing well, and I'm happy to know that you're still with this story! So, thank you! Work has been taking up so much of my time and energy, it's ridiculous. With that being said, meeting the weekly deadline is, unfortunately, impossible as of now, but I'll do my best to get a chapter out every two weeks.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for coming back again! Do leave a comment to let me know what you think about the chapter, and the, uh, smut, or just leave a kudo! See you in the next chapter. 
> 
> Have a great day! :D


	18. Chapter 18

 

**** \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ** **

 

_ This ain't for the best _

_ My reputation's never been worse, so _

_ You must like me for me _

****

_ We can't make _

_ Any promises now, can we, babe? _

_ But you can make me a drink _

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

********  
  


The omnipresent ticking of the bedroom clock accompanies an unwelcomed distant honking of a vehicle down the street, and Bruce freezes abruptly with fingers intertwined with the sleeve of his black turtleneck, towering over a messy bed, anxiety laboriously weighing in. As the boy watches, apprehensively, the calm rise and fall of Jeremiah’s side, he breathes out a quiet sigh of relief, the lack of response signifying, fortunately, an uninterrupted slumber. Resuming, Bruce smooths out the fabric of his clothes, peering at the pale naked back in his view, the disarrayed barnet of auburn, and the bruises of passionate red marking the skin of the other boy’s neck. Biting at his lower lip, Bruce forces himself to turn away, stepping towards the windows to carefully pull at the curtain, dimming the bedroom so as to allow its rightful tenant a better rest. It’s the least he could do. ****  
** **

The device in his pocket rings for the second time this morning. ****  
** **

“Like I said, Alfred, I’m on my way,” Bruce answers in a hushed voice, “Please, just stall him for a while longer.” ****  
** **

“Do hurry,” his old friend urges impatiently, “I’m all out of ideas and your father is furious.” ****  
** **

An expected circumstance. Without a doubt, Bruce is in a world of trouble, surmising the guesstimate of Detective Gordon delivering - to his father - the detestable news of his fraternization with the twin brother of Gotham’s most wanted. Perhaps, it would’ve been wiser to return home the night before after all. Granted, Bruce had contemplated the option, albeit briefly, amidst lazing in bed after their strenuous affair, running his fingers through red locks, fascinated by the rare tranquil state that Jeremiah only displays while asleep, their sweaty limbs entangled under white sheets, as lovers would do. He ends the call, adjusting the high collar of his garment as he stands by a mirror, pondering, out of curiosity and of courteous intention, if waking Jeremiah to let him know of his departing would be felicitous. However, despite recognizing the obvious answer to his incredibly superfluous query, Bruce simply couldn’t bring himself to commit.  ****  
** **

What would he say after? What  _ can  _ he say?  ****  
** **

His gut inherently twists with uncertainty.  ****  
** **

What if Jeremiah confronts him of what he didn’t, in fact, say?  ****  
** **

An ephemeral recap of last night’s events runs through his discombobulated mind. Admittedly, Bruce knows not of why he was stunned by Jeremiah’s unprecedented yet not at all unexpected confession of sentiment, or of why shock was the first and only response that his body was capable of registering. His incertitude, a puzzling obscurity indeed, for at the end of the day, the affection is mutual, is it not? He reckons it’s so. Deep down, Bruce recognizes that his attraction for Jeremiah surpasses beyond the state of just mere infatuation, and the boy definitely has strong feelings for him, that much is true, but does it constitute as love?  ****  
** **

And could it?  ****  
** **

_ "I love you, Bruce." _ ****  
** **

Aghast, Bruce had fumbled inaudibly for words, mind racing as he searches for a dispelled voice, and only when Jeremiah meets his eyes does he answer with an irresolute capture of his soft lips, running his tongue along teeth and palate, licking into the other boy’s mouth to deliver a most impassioned kiss, one serving a sole purpose of distracting Jeremiah from noticing the brewing internal conflict that belays Bruce from reciprocating those three pivotal words. ****  
** **

The boy leaves a small note atop a bedside drawer, shutting the bedroom door behind him before locking the apartment in due course on his way out.

****

~~~~

****

Secrets. ****  
** **

Reticence. ****  
** **

A trip down memory lane. ****  
** **

Growing up, the one thing that had separated the identical twins - that  _ one  _ trait to influence the dose of endearment their mother could spare - was their distinctive individualities; in which one child, being a carbon copy of another, was somewhat miraculously blessed with the desirable qualities of a perfect son, while the other, parading idiosyncrasies similar to that of the parent, was deemed as the rotten twin. Of course, Lila Valeska would kill for a  _ perfect  _ son, a studious scholar adorned with her family name, a child prodigy who she could exhibit on a grand pedestal for all to see. Thus, what becomes of Jerome Valeska, the unenviable surplus? As life would have it, Lila tossed him aside into the filthy soggy mud besmearing circus grounds for an inborn disparity, pummelling hatefully unto a fragile frame whenever he had, ever so slightly, stepped out of line, stomping on his frail bones and skull for being a verifiable reminder of who  _ she  _ really is, for much to his disdain, he and his mother are more alike than either of them would ever admit. ****  
** **

The Valeska twins, though inseparable in the neoteric chapters of their egregious lives, were, in actual fact, not as codependent in the early days of their childhood. As infants, in regards to palpable incongruities, one twin repudiates physical contact whilst the other gravitates towards it, and where one effortlessly laughs at almost anything, the other would barely make the slightest of sound for hours on end. An alarming feat to any concerned parent - no doubt - but not to Lila Valeska, for the strumpet’s priorities, evidently, belong elsewhere. Consequently, the drastic differences dissociating the twins fortified a barrier, naturally, and his brother, the solitudinarian, opted mostly to play alone over wallowing in Jerome’s company, and, back then, the fact that the anti-social recluse had preferred his own company above all others’ didn’t bother young Jerome at all. The twins simply could not relate to each other. Of course, that all changed when beloved mumsy barged into their bedroom in the middle of that one night - as intoxicated as she’d been, stumbling about on imbalanced feet - in search of an outlet for her nagging frustrations, and having mistaken one son for another, as anyone understandably would post-overconsumption of hard liquor (cue the sarcastic drum roll), the defenseless fledgling was forced to endure a staggeringly harsh beating, and, well, Jerome, being the benign older sibling, did what he could to comfort him after. ****  
** **

An upward quirk of lips manifests as Jerome maneuvers through a cramped alleyway, sauntering towards the nearby warehouse. ****  
** **

It's a funny story, really. ****  
** **

See, here’s poor little old Jerome, sulking in private, drowning in a pitiful state of loneliness and misery, and, believe it or not, it's only been two days after leaving that ungrateful bastard behind to fend for his own. With an aching tightness in his parched throat, an unrelenting hammering against his chest, he’d waited, rueing the choice he’d made once he’d locked himself out of their apartment, baggage in hand. Bit by bit, a dulled scalpel shreds at his heart with every haggard breath drawn in. His racing mind, inundated with dread. ****  
** **

_ “I’m staying.” _ ****  
** **

_ “I won’t be dragged into your mess, Jerome.” _ ****  
** **

_ “When the cops arrive, I’ll tell them that you ran away, that I don’t know where you are, nor do I care, because we’re done.” _ ****  
** **

_ “Miah, come on! That's... You can't be serious... Miah! MIAH! Y-You know what, suit yourself, alright? Suit yourself.” _ ****  
** **

Fuck, what had he done? ****  
** **

Quietly, Jerome stood, waiting, eyes fixated doggedly on the unmoving doorknob. He couldn’t have meant what he said. Jerome was sure of it. Miah wouldn’t.  ****  
** **

A question arises, nevertheless, as to how the hell did he not foresee this inexorable predicament prior to its occurrence?  ****  
** **

Arrogance? ****  
** **

A plausible answer, though not quite.  ****  
** **

Overconfidence? ****  
** **

Credible.  ****  
** **

Pertinacious faith had reassured him, time and time again, that the strength of their bond was incontrovertibly stronger than Jeremiah’s supposedly fugacious obsession with a kid he’d seen merely once in his office of prestigious businessmen. Safe to say, who could’ve figured that his twin’s masked yet not-so-well concealed - and dare Jerome say, illegal - desires to fuck and defile a teenager would, ultimately, triumph? If the outcome, at present, could’ve been predicted, Jerome would’ve acted more prudently as opposed to adding extra fuel to the fire, but he just  _ had _ to, didn’t he? Granted, his job partially includes scouring for clients around the city, and, much to every crook’s surprise, the big news of Bruce Wayne buying a nightclub in the Diamond District - the dream locale - made its way around. Hell, it's where all the rich folks flee to for long nights of drinking and partying, so of fucking course, Jerome  _ had _ to get that invitation to Bruce Wayne’s freshman party, and he  _ had _ to make his brother tag along because, presumably, it seemed to be about time for Jeremiah to have his long-awaited formal introduction to the kid he’d, undoubtedly, been fantasizing for years.  ****  
** **

Knowing his brother, what with his high regard of stature and amour propre, the possibility of Jeremiah disclosing any of his personal facts of _ that  _ nature is highly improbable. Be that as it may, research shows that identical twins  _ do _ think alike, but of course, Jerome needs not of a scientist’s validation to know that. After all, he’s never believed that they’re all that dissimilar from one another, anyhow. Some traits may differ, obviously, but Jeremiah and he are one and the same. Irregardless.  _ That _ will never change. Preferences, or otherwise. No matter how hard Jeremiah tries to be good to distinguish himself from the likes of Jerome, there will always be parts of himself that are beyond the reach of salvaging. His brother would never admit it, though, but it’s only a matter of time before the millionaire brat figures it out. The kid’s smart enough. A soft chuckle escapes the back of his throat as Jerome makes his way into the warehouse. It goes without saying, Jeremiah isn’t as innocent as he portrays himself to be. Oh, the dirty little grotesque secrets one would find if one had bothered to lift the lid that seals his twin’s barricaded nous.  ****  
** **

"Hey, Gingerbread,” Greenwood calls out from afar, standing by the pool table, “Where’d you slip off to for the whole morning, huh?" ****  
** **

Sneering at his direction, Jerome carries on walking, en route to the venue of his meeting. “Are you seriously expecting a different answer this time?” ****  
** **

“I’m hopeful,” Greenwood shrugs, “But if it’s got to do with my mother again, then, from the bottom and deepest abyss of my twisted heart, Valeska,  _ fuck you _ .” ****  
** **

As Aaron, who’s closeby, shakes his head to himself at the ongoing feud that will apparently never end, Jerome bellows with laughter, waving dismissively at the two before making his way through a familiar corridor, strutting purposefully towards his employer’s office, only to discover, instead, an empty room. Peering through the panel of glass embroidered into the door, Jerome pouts at the lack of a welcoming party. How strange, indeed. Tabitha had made it clear, earlier on, that they’ve already arrived at the warehouse. Out of nowhere, a muffled noise sounds - which could mean only one thing, Jerome reckons - and he moves onward right away, turning right to climb down a flight of stairs that leads to the now eerily silent concrete basement. ****  
** **

Here’s to another day at the office, Jerome tells himself as he knocks twice at the metal door in sight.

****

~~~~

****

“Come in.” ****  
** **

Palm resting against polished mahogany, Bruce pushes the door forward, stepping cautiously into the room in which his father awaits. Quietly, the youngest Wayne watches as Thomas Wayne casually flips through a document in his hand, not once acknowledging his presence whatsoever. Glancing back over his shoulder, Bruce meets his friend’s concerned eyes, and he couldn’t help but wonder just how much trouble he’d truly gotten himself into. “Alfred, could you kindly shut the door?” His father’s composed voice is anything but settling, and Bruce tears his eyes away, preparing himself for the impending disaccord. “Of course.” Alfred obliges, darting his eyes towards Bruce before retreating to shut the door with a resounding click. Now, trapped within the four walls of the study, the boy draws in a deep breath. “Dad, I can explain-” ****  
** **

“Where were you, Bruce?” ****  
** **

The sudden question, accompanied with a startling sharp tone, throws him off guard completely. A confrontation, it seems, is bound to happen. “I was with a friend,” he answers truthfully. ****  
** **

“Does your friend have a name?” ****  
** **

“I assumed that Detective Gordon would’ve already told you.” ****  
** **

“I’d prefer to hear it from you.” ****  
** **

Repressing a sigh, Bruce grits his teeth. “His name is Jeremiah Valeska.” ****  
** **

“And how close are you with this friend, Bruce?” ****  
** **

A pause ensues as the gears in his mind grind to formulate a proper answer, for a private matter, it must remain. “As close as normal friends would be,” the boy replies, adding with unease, “Dad, you’re not asking me to cut him off, are you?” ****  
** **

Thomas nods thoughtfully, studying the document in his hands still. “As a matter of fact, I am.”  ****  
** **

“Well, I can assure you that it won’t be necessary,” Bruce insists, stepping forward as he approaches his father’s desk, “What his brother does or is capable of doing does not constitute to what he would do. Trust me, Dad, I know him.” ****  
** **

"Perhaps so, or perhaps not," Thomas mutters, eyes glued to his papers, "At any rate, it’d be best if you distance yourself for good. You may have faith in him, Bruce, but others do not. The media has been all over the brothers with the manhunt underway and there's not a single person in Gotham who doesn't know that Jerome Valeska has a twin. Anywhere he goes, trouble will follow. I don't wish to see your involvement in this matter, Bruce. It's too dangerous." ****  
** **

“And what of Jeremiah?” the boy questions, “He’s clueless as to what Jerome does for Theo Galavan, but the public insists on accusing him of the contrary. To be honest, I’m afraid that, sooner or later, this whole mess will eventually spiral out of control and by the time that it does, I fear that even the GCPD won’t be able to protect him, given the fact that Jerome’s enemies  _ do _ outnumber his friends. I’m sorry, Dad, but I won’t cut him off, not when the situation is rectifiable. If the media is instilling fear in the minds of the people in the city, then I’ll make sure they’ll see that Jeremiah is not a threat. I’ll give them a reason to listen to his side of the story.” ****  
** **

For the first time today, his father sees him eye to eye. “And how exactly are you going to do that?” he asks. ****  
** **

With that, Bruce discovers, much to his surprise, that he’s at a loss for words.  _ How is he going to do that? _ Perhaps, it’s time to actually sit down and think this through, thoroughly. What had he gotten himself into?  ****  
** **

The boy fumbles as he speaks, “I… I’ll figure it out, but until then, I deserve the benefit of the doubt.” ****  
** **

Sighing, his father sets down the document, eyebrows furrowing with consideration, and Bruce watches patiently as he turns his head to the side, looking out the window that oversees the open field stretching across their front yard before letting a syllable escape into the room.  ****  
** **

“No.” ****  
** **

Bruce straightens with disbelief. “Why not?”  ****  
** **

“You have better things to do,” Thomas stands, pacing towards the window, “Your studies, for instance.”  ****  
** **

“This is equally significant.”  ****  
** **

“My answer is no,” Thomas states sternly as he faces him, “End of discussion.”  ****  
** **

“Dad, I can’t just sit by and do nothing!” ****  
** **

"You will, and you must!” Much like Bruce, Thomas raises his voice as an emphasis as well. “Have you got the slightest idea of what you’ve gotten yourself into, Bruce? Like I’ve said before, this isn’t a game! People can get hurt, or worse! You’ve deliberately disobeyed me by sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, and it’s gone on for far too long, son. I had to explain to Gordon that the money you’ve spent for the car from that ‘charity’ auction was specifically meant to support Gotham’s homes for children with special needs, or so Galavan had claimed for it to be.” ****  
** **

Agitated, Bruce grits his teeth to the point where his jaw is beginning to hurt. ****  
** **

“Your persistence to help Xander is admirable, but I simply cannot allow it!” ****  
** **

Bruce almost doesn’t hear it - that foreign name - but he does. ****  
** **

“Xander?” ****  
** **

His father’s eyebrows furrow once again. “Xander Wilde,” Thomas elaborates, “That’s the alias your  _ friend  _ used when we’d worked together a few years ago.” ****  
** **

The information, new and somewhat baffling, fails to compute in Bruce’s mind, to which he raises another inquiry to soothe his innermost curiosities. ****  
** **

“What do you mean?”

****

~~~~

****

The metal door creaks open, revealing to Jerome the familiar face of a man who would, if given the chance, throw Jerome into Blackgate Prison - after inculcating the judge and jury to bestow upon him a life sentence - just for the fun of it, because he simply enjoys being an insufferable asshole in his leisure outside of court, or in general. ****  
** **

"You're late," he sneers. ****  
** **

With that, Jerome resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, well, I could've gotten here earlier if your mom hadn't been so fussy." ****  
** **

Lips pressed into a thin line, Harvey Dent swings the heavy door open, standing before him in his overpriced navy blue suit, looking fairly unimpressed with Jerome’s rather charming choice of words. "Is that decaying sack of mold that you so conveniently call a brain even capable of coming up with a proper insult anymore?" ****  
** **

An agonizing scream suddenly erupts across the underground enclosure, followed by a string of unintelligible words that distracts Jerome from coming up with a well-thought-out riposte, and, at the same time, he faintly hears Tabitha yelling for Dent, the Statute Snob, to ‘let him the fuck in’. Jerome snorts with amusement. Somehow, it brings him enough joy to know that the boss lady despises the attorney as much as he does. That’s another thing that they share in common. Well, actually, it’s not entirely true, considering the fact that Tabs despises literally everyone else who isn’t her brother, or Butch Gilzean. With a smug smile plastered on his face, Harvey sneers in response before reluctantly stepping aside to allow him entry. Another blood-curdling scream fills his ears as Jerome absorbs the sanguinary scene before him, studying the patches of crimson randomly decorating the cement floor, the silver legs of his metal chair, the soaked rumpled attire of the sufferer, and the piquant visual of his employer slowly peeling a broken nail from his finger. ****  
** **

“Who’s the yappy?” asks Jerome as he stands beside Tabitha. ****  
** **

“One of Cobblepot’s,” she says, “We caught him snooping around outside one of our buildings.”  ****  
** **

“You don’t say,” he chuckles, “What’s Pengy been feeding them these days? It seems like they’re getting braver, don’t they?” Tilting his head, Jerome suddenly freezes there and then as he realizes that he’d seen the yappy before, though he couldn’t exactly recall as to where... ****  
** **

“I apologize, does it hurt?” Theo Galavan chooses to taunt as a sinister cheshire smile spreads across his face while the tortured man whimpers in pain, spewing blood from his mouth as he struggles to stay upright, and, unfortunately, that’s when Jerome manages to remember, his blood instantaneously running cold at the precipitous recollection. ****  
** **

_ “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Jerome, and please, Oswald will do. There’s no need for such formalities between friends.” _ ****  
** **

_ “Pleasure’s all mine,” Jerome grinned, shaking his hand, “And, uh, payment?” _ ****  
** **

_ “Right here,” Oswald reassured quietly as he grabbed a briefcase from one of his men, “As promised, in cold hard cash. A total of fifty-five grand.”  _ ****  
** **

Fuck.  ****  
** **

Stunned, Jerome is beleaguered by the memory of his first meeting with Oswald Cobblepot at the fish market in Chinatown, overwhelmed with a materializing need to flee. It’s him. It’s the guy holding the fucking briefcase. The Valeska freezes in horror as the dying man stares wordlessly at him, his swollen eyes twitching involuntarily. ****  
** **

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”  ****  
** **

Theo Galavan’s question just about sends Jerome into cardiac arrest.  ****  
** **

What had the man said before?  ****  
** **

He gulps at the dismaying uncertainty.  ****  
** **

What do they know? ****  
** **

Or, most importantly, what don’t they? ****  
** **

Fear - not for himself, but for Jeremiah’s safety - crawls underneath his skin. ****  
** **

Without warning, Theo Galavan brutally backhands the man across his bruised face, splattering blood all over the cement floor before yanking his head backwards by a harsh fistful of hair. It’s an unbearably harrowing scene to witness, at least for Harvey Dent, who darts his eyes away when Theo Galavan forces the knife into the man’s mouth, exhibiting a remorseless display of schadenfreude and cruelty as he carves into his cheeks, ripping from his gargling throat a frightening and hair-raising anguished scream as more blood gushes from the tears in the flesh of his face. Thrashing violently, his limbs fight frantically to escape the blade, but, alas, to no avail. As Galavan cuts him open, slowly but surely, the helpless man only grows more fatigue with each struggle, the fire within his being fading as he reluctantly accepts the impending fate that befalls unto him. Bereft of speech, Jerome watches as the poor bastard, at long last, stops moving altogether, body falling limp upon drawing his last haggard breath when Galavan sinks the blade into his throat. Harvey Dent returns his focus to them only when their employer withdraws from the corpse, tossing the knife aside as he casually wipes his blood-stained hands against the exorbitant fabric of his expensive suit. Tabitha stands emotionlessly as her brother turns around, chapped lips distorting to form a wicked smile.  ****  
** **

To say that Theo Galavan loves not of these interrogation sessions would be an arrant lie. As a matter of fact, he savors them, just as much as Jerome does. Maybe even more. Straightening his back, Galavan proceeds to smooth out the crumpled sleeves of his shirt before addressing the redhead before him, asking out of the blue, “Where were you, Jerome?” And his gut twists unsettlingly at the question. Taking notice of Harvey’s eyes boring into the back of his skull, he realizes now that something is terribly wrong, and, as he stands his ground, Jerome is conferred with two possible courses of action to either spit the truth or spin a lie, to which he opts for the former for fear of being caught of perfidy and, in consequence, endangering his brother’s welfare as a result. Obviously, Jerome can't let that happen. ****  
** **

“I was paying a friend a visit," he answers. ****  
** **

“Is that right?" A hint of scepticism dwells in his employer’s voice. "Reason?” ****  
** **

Still, there’s no point in telling the whole truth, especially not with an outsider propped in the room. "She owes me a favor," Jerome simply says. ****  
** **

“That’s it?” Harvey Dent, said outsider, rudely chimes in, and Jerome’s lips press into a thin line, “I’m sure you can do better than that.” ****  
** **

“ _ Shhhh _ , the adults are talking, Dent.” ****  
** **

“Seriously, Valeska, from the looks of things,  _ you  _ were the one asking for favors, were you not?” ****  
** **

The attorney’s smugness confirms his surmise. It’s highly probable that Harvey Dent had followed him to Ecco’s residence, observing their conversations from afar before journeying to the GCPD with Tabitha to post her brother’s costly bail. He hates admitting it, but Jerome is certainly losing his touch. He should’ve sensed that something was amiss, that he had unknowingly become a subject of surveillance, but his troubled mind had been too preoccupied to be heedful of matters uninvolving Jeremiah. A sharp intake of breath steals his attention and Theo Galavan throws at him yet another question that would precipitate his unease.  ****  
** **

“You’re not hiding anything from me, are you?” ****  
** **

Jerome tenses. “No... Of course not.” ****  
** **

“Because if there’s anything you’d like for me to know, Jerome,  _ anything  _ at all, now’s the time,” his employer carries on, resting a blood-stained palm onto his shoulder, adding reassuringly, “All will be forgiven.” ****  
** **

His blood runs cold, once again. Those words could mean anything, or perhaps even nothing, but somehow, Jerome can’t shake the feeling that his employer already knows the truth of his traitorous affiliation with the enemy, and it’s perturbing, to say the least. Yet, a loophole comes to light, an aperture for escape, for as long as his suspicion against him remains unratified, there  _ will  _ be alternative measures to abscond from this plight. An optimistic outlook on his part, demonstrably. ****  
** **

With a shake of his head, Jerome garners enough vigour to respond with his utmost assurance. ****  
** **

“There’s nothing to tell, sir.”

****

~~~~

****

**Channel 449** ****  
** **

"...a brilliant engineer from Gotham State University, who at the young age of twenty-two has achieved a tremendously impressive scientific breakthrough in creating the self-perpetuating generator that many clean energy experts have regarded as the catalyst that would propel the advancement in energy production for the nation. Here, we have footage of the presentation held not long ago where Jeremiah Valeska had first introduced to Gotham City of his unrivalled invention." ****  
** **

_ “This self-perpetuating generator is a compact electrical engine. The first of its kind. It generates power, and just two could light up every building south of Westward Bridge. Ambient energy. No cables or wires of any kind. It's clean and stable. Harvested from micro tremors and air density shifts, it’s virtually without costs.” _

****

**Channel 452** ****  
** **

"...he's a threat to all of us and we mustn't allow the likes of them to run free in this city! How could you and your children sleep at night, knowing..."

****

**Channel 463** ****  
** **

"When one is a psychotically deranged mass murderer, who's to say that the other possesses no potential in morphing into something similar in the near future? They  _ are  _ identical, after all. I'm not saying that he'll definitely turn out to be as violent and as cold-blooded as his brother, but there still remains a possibility that one day, he might, for some reason, snap in the same way."

****

Gritting his teeth, Jeremiah switches off the television for good, judging by the fact that there's absolutely no point in listening to these self-proclaimed news channels anyhow, not when their priorities focus mainly on tabloids and controversies to surge their view counts rather than broadcasting stories that truly matter. This is all Jerome’s doing. Tarnished is his general reputation, the unobstructed path of his forthcoming career, and the trust he’d built with individuals capable of paving the way for Jeremiah. Results that have taken years to accomplish have all but disintegrated into ashes and scattered out to sea because Jerome had refused to live a normal life. In all honesty, how difficult could it have been? At the end of the day, it’s merely a matter of choice, and his brother had, much to Jeremiah’s disappointment, chosen the easiest route to get by.  ****  
** **

Exhausted, Jeremiah slumps against the couch, fingertips grazing along a small piece of paper - a note - one that his lover from last night had left behind. His head tilts to the right. ‘Lover’ is, to him, a surprisingly adoring term and the fact that fate has, in the fullness of time, allowed him to call Bruce Wayne  _ that _ pulls endearingly at his heartstrings. Never in a million years would he had dared to entertain himself with the thought. Never in a million dreams.  ****  
** **

Yet, look what it led to. ****  
** **

An empty bed with dishevelled sheets, a note considerably left on his bedside table, and a phone number that couldn’t be reached. ****  
** **

**Sorry for leaving without a word.** ****  
** **

The note had said. ****  
** **

**Call me when you wake up.** ****  
** **

And he did. Twice this morning. Once only a few minutes ago.  ****  
** **

With a burdened sigh, Jeremiah buries his face into his palms, drowning in the unwavering tension that is building inside. ****  
** **

As most Saturdays go, this one in particular is somewhat excruciatingly lonesome. ****  
** **

Staying in the apartment, accompanied with nothing else but his own meddling thoughts, serves as a cruel act of torture on the vulnerable state of his fragile mind. The slightest glimpse of any nook and cranny of each room reminds him, without fail, of the remnants of his brother's presence. A surviving trace of quondam memories. Which is why, the door to Jerome's bedroom remains locked ever since the cops had left their home, and Jeremiah intends to keep it that way, choosing not to be reminded of the way things were, of how life with one another had used to be. As much as he blames Jerome for the trouble he’s dragged him into, Jeremiah still misses him. More than anything. The apartment  _ is  _ his home, as much as it was Jerome's. Irreplaceable are the memories and laughters shared, the times of good and bad, the words uttered in conversations and arguments alike of both past and present. Certainly, Jeremiah hopes that his choice to lead a normal life wouldn’t sever their bond too gravely. He hopes that his brother sees it too, that he’d continue to uphold the old promise that had kept them together for this long.  ****  
** **

Come what may, families stick together. Always. ****  
** **

The phone, in which he’d previously tossed aside across the couch, rings all of a sudden and Jeremiah’s hand surges forward to grab it, answering a little too quickly as he brings the device to his ear. ****  
** **

" _ Bruce? _ " ****  
** **

There’s a pause. "Hello, Jeremiah." ****  
** **

"Hello," the redhead shifts nervously in his seat, "I… I thought you wouldn't have called." ****  
** **

"Sorry, I've been busy." ****  
** **

"It's alright.” He smiles in relief. “I'm glad you did." ****  
** **

Another pause. "Jeremiah, could you meet me at the club tonight? It’s important.”  ****  
** **

For what reason, Bruce oddly explains no further.  ****  
** **

Staying in the apartment may evidently be calamitous to his debilitated mental health, but leaving it, albeit temporarily, could possibly instigate some even more dire consequences. It’s not safe for him out there. With the entire city on high alert to hunt his brother down, stepping out of his sheltered home is, without a doubt, injudicious and suicidal. Given that the GCPD had placed an enormous bounty on Jerome’s name, Jeremiah doubts that people would be willing to listen if he’d insisted that he has no clue of his brother’s whereabouts. By nature, humans can be cruel, as they are selfish, and Jeremiah would rather not put that to the test with random strangers out in the city. However, despite the overt rationality behind the cautious approach to his situation, Jeremiah will also, unfortunately, do just about anything for Bruce Wayne. ****  
** **

Come nine o'clock, Jeremiah, dressed inconspicuously in an old baseball cap and a black round-collared shirt with dark jeans, crosses a busy street towards the grandiose entrance of the exclusive night club, keeping his head low as he walks straight up to security because Bruce had previously instructed him to do so. An unsettling feeling brews in his gut as a group of young adults begin screaming and laughing obnoxiously at the same moment he had chosen to walk by. Suddenly, Jeremiah absolutely dreads the outdoors. This can’t be a mistake, can it? Every fiber in his being had warned him against leaving the safehouse, and he knows, for sure, that Jerome would’ve been downright furious to know that he did. Peril is nigh, after all. Fists clenched with nervous energy, Jeremiah acknowledges not of those waiting in the long line that extends from the main door to God-knows-where as he makes his way, and, as expected, an oblivious bouncer stops him in his tracks, asking him if he’s got a problem for cutting the queue. ****  
** **

“Bruce Wayne is expecting me,” Jeremiah unconfidently tells him. It’s most certainly not a question, but he’d definitely made it sound like one. ****  
** **

“Oh, yeah? Sure thing, kid,” the bouncer scoffs impudently, “Get back in line, you punk.”

“I’m afraid I have to insist,” says Jeremiah, swallowing nervously as he lifts his head, and the man’s eyes widen almost comically in shock at the alarming sight of an all too familiar face of a deranged murderer who’s still on the loose, “I would hate to be late for our appointment.” ****  
** **

Stepping aside immediately, the bouncer chokes pathetically on his apology, to which Jeremiah ignores completely as he trails along the dark corridor that leads into the heart of the club. He remembers the first time he’d walked the same path with Jerome as his guide, who had led him, with an arm flung around his shoulders, to an arena of where the crowds reside. The overwhelmingly deafening electronic music that welcomes him, once again, threatens to puncture his eardrums with every heavy bass drop, making his heart pound so hard against his ribcage that it feels as though it’ll jump right out of his chest at any moment. Peering over a sea of people on the dancefloor, he spots Bruce at a faraway bar, chatting up the bartender who’d attended to him after Jeremiah had, during his last visit, excused himself from Jerome’s company to coincidentally sit alone at his bar.  ****  
** **

_ “Need anything?” _ ****  
** **

_ “I-I don’t really know,” Jeremiah gulped, “What do you recommend?” _ ****  
** **

_ “Well, customers say that I make a mean Moscos Mule, but for you,” the bartender arched his eyebrow, “How about a Bee’s Knees or Sex on the Beach?” _ ****  
** **

Ocean blue eyes. Broad shoulders. Tall. Blonde. Still seemingly buff under the same expensive black suit. As Jeremiah approaches, Steve, the bartender, beams at him with recognition, turning away from Bruce as he greets him with a gleaming sparkle in his eyes, “I told you I’ll see you again, Jeremiah.” His throat runs dry at the realization that the bartender remembers his name. Out of the hundreds of customers in which he probably serves, had Jeremiah really stood out to him  _ that  _ much? He swallows visibly. "It’s good to see you again as well, Steve.” From the corner of his eye, Jeremiah notices that Bruce is staring curiously at the both of them, and he flashes a reassuring smile as he nods at the boy’s direction, “Hello, Bruce.” ****  
** **

Much to his surprise, Bruce simply nods back, stepping forward with a rug in hand, and Jeremiah studies the long sleeves of the younger’s sweater tucked around his elbows. "I'll take it from here, Steve. Thank you.” An incongruous sense of aloofness poisons the air surrounding their bar, and Bruce, for some reason, refuses to look up at Jeremiah, at least not until when his employee exchanges a friendly glance with the redhead before leaving his post. Then, with a faint smile, Bruce gestures politely at his odd choice of headwear. "I never took you for a baseball fan, Jeremiah."  ****  
** **

"It's, uh, merely a prop for my disguise," Jeremiah explains, sitting atop an opposite barstool, "I wasn't sure how people would react to me. I… I used to be able to blend into any background, you know, but now, it's just..." ****  
** **

"Difficult?" ****  
** **

Jeremiah nods, fidgeting anxiously with his fingers. “Everything’s different now, Bruce. People take one look at me and the only thing they'll see is the monster that Jerome has become. To be honest, it'd be a miracle if I'm still able to walk around the city without having the cops called on me time and time again." He lets out a small laugh, and to his relief, the boy laughs along with him. ****  
** **

"That or Arkham Asylum," Bruce jokes lightly. ****  
** **

"God, not the loony bin," Jeremiah drawls amusedly, "I don't belong in a madhouse,  _ please _ ." ****  
** **

With that, Bruce laughs harder, and it triggers the slumbering butterflies in Jeremiah’s stomach to flutter all at once. It goes without saying that the boy is, indeed, as beautiful as the picturesque view of the glimmering stars that litter the night sky above Gotham City, yet the twinkling in his eyes accentuates his beauty even more and Jeremiah finds that he can’t look away, for he is simply beyond mesmerized. Bruce’s short-lived laughter, however, eventually dies down, and the smile on his face falters as he noticeably fumbles for his next words.  ****  
** **

"I'm sorry for leaving without saying goodbye," the boy apologizes, seemingly, from the bottom of his heart, "I… I hope you didn't think that I was… You know…" ****  
** **

Jeremiah shifts sheepishly in his seat, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. "I, um, I didn't, Bruce, and I saw your note, so..." Retrieving a folded piece of paper, he places it onto the bar, adding as Bruce takes it into his hand, "No harm done." ****  
** **

A small smile forms on Bruce’s face, though Jeremiah notices immediately that it’s not without an indisputable hint of sadness layering it. Naturally, he reaches out for Bruce’s hand, giving the boy a gentle squeeze as he asks, out of concern, if everything is indeed alright. To which, in response, much to Jeremiah’s stupefaction, Bruce withdraws his own hand, resting it atop the bar after returning his note to Jeremiah without sparing another word. His throat runs dry. Perhaps… Perhaps, it's the wrong place to initiate this particular form of intimacy, Jeremiah reassures himself. Given the fact that Bruce so happens to be the legal owner of the establishment, it’s highly crucial for him to maintain a professional repute, is it not? The redhead clears his throat. "If you don’t mind me asking, Bruce, why did you request to meet here out of all places?" ****  
** **

“It was a last minute decision. I had to be here tonight, and I wanted to see you,” Bruce answers softly, briefly glancing up as he busies himself with the rack of empty shot glasses and the coarse rug in his hand, "Meeting you tomorrow was initially the plan, but I figured that asking you out in person would’ve been the better alternative, considering the fact that I had so rudely left this morning." ****  
** **

Hold on. Did he just... ****  
** **

"Bruce, I… I don't follow..." ****  
** **

The boy swallows visibly. "I guess what I’m asking is…” And Bruce shyly lifts his head as he attempts to speak eloquently, and properly, as any normal person would. “...if you would like to go on a date with me?" ****  
** **

It goes without saying that Jeremiah, who is momentarily dumbfounded, is also absolutely flabbergasted. Mouth agape, he thinks of something to say, but the blank canvas that comprises the current state of his mind originates nothing. Despite the fact that their relationship had grown so much since the beginning, and so intimate as of late, taking into consideration of the additional fact that they were even passionate lovers the night before, the question still throws him completely off guard and it’s absurdly ridiculous. As Bruce gazes at him with hopeful eyes, eventually, Jeremiah manages to ask, "In public?" ****  
** **

The boy releases a small laugh. "Of course, Jeremiah." ****  
** **

A sense of dread suddenly washes over him, reminding him of his dire situation, and Jeremiah begins dwelling with acute indecision. "Are you sure?” Bruce tilts his head at that. “I mean, to be seen with me?" ****  
** **

"I don't see any problem in that," says Bruce. ****  
** **

"But you  _ do  _ see the hundreds of wanted posters plastered across Gotham, don't you?" ****  
** **

"So long as it's not you, does it matter?" ****  
** **

"Come now, Bruce. I appreciate the faith you have in me, but the people in this city don't think the same way as you do, nor will they choose to,” Jeremiah draws back, increduled, “I've seen the programmes. I know where they stand. They think that I'm a threat to society, that one day I'm going to snap like Jerome, and that there's something equally wrong with me, despite it being far from the truth. I’m sorry, Bruce, but I’m starting to think that it's unwise to hang around me. At least not for now. Not in public." ****  
** **

"Jeremiah, hiding won't do you any good either," Bruce persuades, "Trust me, it’ll be fine.” ****  
** **

"It'll be detrimental to your name." ****  
** **

“It doesn’t matter to me.” ****  
** **

" _ It does to your father _ ,” Jeremiah grits his teeth, knowing that he’s said too much at this point, "I’m sorry, Bruce, but I can’t do it." ****  
** **

“Think of what the exposure will do for you, Jeremiah.” ****  
** **

Jeremiah pauses for a short moment. “What do you mean by that?” ****  
** **

“I’m trying to help you,” Bruce sighs, “The reason why they see you as a threat is solely because they don’t understand you well enough, Jeremiah. I do, and I know that you’re not your brother, but the people of Gotham don’t see that yet. Just trust me on this, please.”  ****  
** **

Eyebrows furrowing with confusion, Jeremiah swears that he isn’t marginally pouting when he asks to confirm, “So, it’s not really a date?” ****  
** **

“It is,” Bruce flashes him a smile, “Leave it to me to do the planning, Jeremiah. All you have to do is just relax and go with the flow. Oh, and dress well.” ****  
** **

He eyes the boy suspiciously. “Where are we going, Bruce?” ****  
** **

“It’s a surprise.” ****  
** **

“How well should I dress?” ****  
** **

Bruce gives him a thoughtful look. “A tuxedo would be nice.” ****  
** **

“ _ A tuxedo?! _ ” ****  
** **

“Do you not have one?” ****  
** **

“Of course, I do, but Bruce-” ****  
** **

“That settles it then,” Bruce cuts him off, “Tomorrow evening. I’ll pick you up at six.” ****  
** **

“You worry me, Bruce.” ****  
** **

“That’s what my mother always said.” ****  
** **

It’s Jeremiah’s turn to sigh. "Do you really think that would work?" With a most earnest look, Bruce reassures him that he does and his shoulders slump instantaneously with defeat. "Then, I'll try...” he mutters under his breath, trusting Bruce to truly know what he’s doing.  ****  
** **

“But I can't make any promises, Bruce."  ****  
** **

"That, I understand," Bruce nods, retrieving an empty glass in his hand before tossing the rug aside across their empty bar, "How about a drink, Jeremiah? I’ve picked up a few recipes from the bartenders whilst working here. Can I get you anything?" ****  
** **

"I'll have whatever you're having," Jeremiah simply says, pondering if the old tuxedo in his disorganized wardrobe would do well for their upcoming date or rendezvous at God-knows-where in the bustling city that rarely sleeps.  ****  
** **

It should.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER ONE THAT TOOK FOREVER!
> 
> So, this one is 7,000 words. Enjoy!
> 
> And once again, thank you so much for coming back to this story! It really means a lot to know that you're still reading, despite the fact that I could barely meet the old weekly schedule anymore, thanks to my new job. T.T But I'll try my best to update more frequently by keeping the chapters short. Probably around 4,000 words! :D
> 
> As always, leave a comment or a kudo to show your love and thank you so much yet again for taking time off to read the new chapter!
> 
> Have a great day! :D


	19. Chapter 19

_Adjusting a hefty weight burdening his shoulders, Jeremiah trudged through wet circus grounds soaked by the preceding rainfall, spattering soggy mud under heavy soles of ragged shoes and concomitantly wondering just where the hell Jerome had run off to. The sun had begun to set. It soon would disappear behind the mountain range that stretched across a scenic horizon, and at that point, Jeremiah would rather not be alone with his drunken mother in the fairly unfamiliar locale. Haly’s Circus was a travelling show, boasting a wide array of acts at a variety of settings all over the country. With that said, it meant that his brother had an abundance of places to explore, abandoning all work for play by leaving during the earliest of hours and returning only at night. On that particular Thursday, howbeit, Jerome had promised to be back before dusk with some new books, seeing that the circus was set to depart to the next destination the following morning and Jeremiah had needed to replenish his source of entertainment for the impending journey ahead._

_Securing the arm on his shoulders, Jeremiah had struggled to open the door to their trailer with it threatening to slip, heaving the lifeless weight of a pestiferous woman through the narrow doorway once he’d gained entrance. To say that Lila Valeska, harlot of the circus, was a piece of work would be an understatement. Having received yet another call from one of her mutuals, Jeremiah was expected to push everything aside - once again - to collect his intoxicated mother from one of the many tents of red and white pitched in the area. With ‘dignity’ missing from her grasp of vocabulary, she had succeeded in becoming an absolute embarrassment to herself, the twins, and their father, of whom she’d rarely spoken of, who had apparently died at sea._

_Words could never describe the immense disappointment Jeremiah had often felt in her presence._

_"Be a good samaritan and get me that fucking cigarette, would you?”_

_Beguiling the poor excuse of a doting mother with merited silence, Jeremiah eased the lethargic inebriate onto a tattered couch, one that had simply occupied too much space in their awfully cramped living room. Lila scoffed aloud, red lips cracking to form a baleful grin before a low chuckle escaped from her throat._

_"You used to tell me you love me."_

_Wordlessly, Jeremiah snatched the empty bottle from his mother's grip to dispose of it in their incommodious kitchen. He stepped towards the sink._

_“Showed me that you cared.”_

_He’d done so, admittedly, but only when he’d wanted her to quit her mindless drinking and her impetuous acts of fornicating with random men who’d looked once at her way, only when he’d wanted her to stop hurting Jerome in ways that she wouldn't have, under any circumstances, done towards him, and only when he’d wanted her to be the mother he had wished she could’ve been, even for just a short minute._

_Uttering those few words and showing a slight bit of affection seemed to have worked temporarily, but not anymore._

_"Now, you won't even look at me."_

_It was a shame, really._

_Calmly, Jeremiah filled his mug with water, downing it as he stared out at the window in silence._

_"Whatever happened to us, Jeremiah?"_

_Ominous clouds loomed over the darkening sky, signifying a stormy night ahead. Jerome had better hurry. He didn’t like being stuck outside in the rain, and Jeremiah didn’t like being alone with their mother in the midst of her having another drunken episode, which had, in the past, proved that it would inevitably lead to a violent outburst._

_"I see that no matter what I do to make it up to you or however much I apologize, you'll never stop hating me, will you?"_

_Sighing internally, he rinsed the mug at the sink before putting it back in place. The sound of thunder rolled overhead._

_"Looks like that worthless cunt did turn you against me."_

_"That worthless cunt is also your son," Jeremiah finally spoke. His voice calm, his composure kempt. It was the first sentence he had uttered to her in days._

_"I have only one," Lila merely whispered back, "Only you. I used to, anyway. Ain’t that right?"_

_Turning away from the window, Jeremiah looked down upon the negligent parent. Expressionless. "You should rest," the teenager simply said, exiting the kitchen as he stepped towards the way where they came, ignoring Lila’s strained laughter as he reached for the door knob. Jeremiah knew that he sounded as if he couldn't be bothered to even give a damn. It had used to infuriate her, seeing how she couldn't elicit an acceptable response from his ice cold demeanor, and it still did, apparently._

_"A rebel at sixteen, huh?” Lila spat venomously, “I expect you to know who’s responsible for putting food on your table, Jeremiah. A little respect is all I fucking ask.”_

_Pushing the door open, Jeremiah stepped outside onto muddy soil as rain began to pour._ **  
**

~~~~

The rusting door to the Valeska's run-down trailer creaks as a cold countryside breeze sways the wide opened panel. It’s one of the final dregs that he couldn’t fix. Evidently, he's done his best, cleaning out every nook and cranny in this rotting shithole to make it look at least a tad bit presentable after years of careless use. Hell, he's even emptied an entire can of air freshener to supplant the smell of his cigarettes. It’s a mess. Also, what couldn’t be saved had to be replaced, so out goes his hard-earned money to the furniture store for a brand new stinking couch, seeing that the old one possessed the potential to scare any buyer away. Fucking troublemakers couldn't bother to pick up after themselves or look after the place before, could they? Bastards, the both of them.

"I can't thank you enough, old pal. God knows we needed a roof above our heads," his friend laughs with relief, gazing beyond the unsullied fields of green stretching towards a faraway mountain range, "Where did you say you were heading off to again?"

As he double-checks the amount of money in his hands, Zachary Trumble shrugs contentedly with a cheshire grin.

"Oh, anywhere I damn well please." **  
**

~~~~ **  
**

Huffing anxiously at the reflection in his mirror, Jeremiah's shoulders slump with ambivalence as he stares indecisively at the black bowtie beneath his collar. To wear, or not to wear. Indeed, that is the question. Prior to it, Jeremiah had easily made the decision to remove the red rose affixed on his white blazer for fear of overdressing and drawing too much attention, as though his show of face isn’t already more than enough for the dreaded evening. It’s ridiculous, especially for Bruce to insist, time and time again, that whatever _this_ is constitutes as a date. Jeremiah, for one, knows what’s really happening. The event itself is nothing more than a dedicated publicity stunt and he himself is the exhibition piece. Granted, he knows of Bruce's good intentions in opening Gotham’s eyes to his innocuous nature with comparison to his brother’s, but the plan already sounds ludicrous, come to think of it, and there _are_ discernibly better ways to go around it without personally involving the Waynes altogether. Knowing Thomas Wayne, proprietor of the imperial conglomerate that is Wayne Enterprises, the sovereign of high-status and prodigious power would, beyond the shadow of a doubt, be infuriated when he finds out that his son is involved with the likes of him. It’s safe to say that Jeremiah isn’t, in any way, hopeful in regards to his shaky employment with Wayne either, considering the undesirable state of his current affairs. 

Sighing, Jeremiah tugs the bowtie from his collar, deeming the accessory unnecessary. 

Come six in the evening, the passenger’s window of a familiar black Mercedes rolls down, and immediately, the butterflies in his stomach grow restless at the stellar sight of Bruce’s adorably broad grin that is, poetically, brighter than a thousand suns. Gulping, Jeremiah manages to reciprocate - but with a less vibrant smile, because he _is_ still pretty nervous at this point - as he approaches the vehicle, reaching for the door with his free hand whilst holding onto a brand new bottle of wine in the other. "What did you bring along?" Bruce asks enthusiastically, eyeing the label wrapped around the bottle as Jeremiah settles into the passenger’s seat, shutting the door with a resounding thud. "Casanova di Neri," Bruce reads aloud, casting an adoring glance at Jeremiah's way as he suddenly beams, "How fitting."

Mouth agape, the redhead blinks comically at the boy’s outlandish mien, utterly discombobulated.

Bruce is, without question, basking in a more jovial mood in comparison to his usual self, which is why it's completely natural for Jeremiah to find it a _tad_ bit suspicious on that account, especially when Bruce had been so adamant on keeping mum about the plan he’s concocted for the evening. Be that as it may, Jeremiah, being oh-so helplessly in love, grows weak with any string of affection that Bruce throws at his way, and so, he tries to convince himself with a copious amount of effort to push aside any unanswered qualms for the moment as well as for the rest of the evening. "I, um… I didn't know what to get you, but wine seemed to be the best choice for the occasion."

As realization oddly washes over the boy’s face, Bruce withdraws slightly with surprise, eyes darting towards the fancy bottle in his hand. "Jeremiah, is this a gift?" 

In response, the redhead nods.

A pause of a few seconds ensues before Bruce’s eyes widen, dramatically, as though it’s now _his_ turn to react comically at the other person engaged in their farcical conversation. It’s unexpected, yet fairly hilarious at the same time. "Oh, God…”

“Is… everything alright?”

"No,” the boy answers instantaneously, palm flying to his forehead and Jeremiah peers out of curiosity to see if Bruce had managed to unintentionally mess up his hair somehow. It would've been a shame, really. “I’ve been so busy going over the plan that I-”

“It’s fine, Bruce. Really, it’s noth-”

"The fact that the thought _did_ cross my mind makes it even more impermissible." As though in utter distraught, Bruce’s eyebrows furrow unnecessarily and Jeremiah couldn’t help but break into a smile out of sheer amusement. It truly matters not if Bruce had, in fact, bought him anything or otherwise, seeing that Jeremiah doesn’t expect any in return anyways. What matters more than anything is that Bruce cares for him, just as much as he does for Bruce, and that’s enough. “I-This is embarrassing. I apologize, Jeremiah. It's not that I’d forgotten… Well, actually, I did, but-” And as Bruce spews word after word, distracted completely by his own train of thought, Jeremiah leans back against the leather seat, sporting an unmistakable set of heart-eyes as the boy babbles away with needless explanation, pondering to himself if skipping dinner in favor of extending _this_ particular moment in time could be feasible. Perhaps, it could, if Bruce is actually willing or distracted enough, that is. The peculiar term of ‘cute’ - though it rarely coincides with Jeremiah’s reach of vocabulary - is, at present, the best appellation he could find to describe Bruce, and it’s safe to say that the redhead is unreservedly and helplessly spellbound. “Everything has to go according to plan, and it’s just… Alright, you know what, I think I’ve rambled enough as it is.”

Immediately, Jeremiah shakes his head without hesitation. “No, by all means, carry on.” 

With that, the boy pauses momentarily. "Why do I get the feeling that you'd want that?"

“I, um... I like these moments between us,” Jeremiah admits sheepishly, “And also, anything opposing to showing up for whatever it is that you’ve planned is personally a better choice for a proper date, Bruce.”

A small laugh escapes Bruce’s throat as he shakes his head to himself. “You’re worrying too much again,” he tells him, “Trust me, it’ll be fine. Furthermore, it’s kind of a little too late to back out now.”

“Allow me to disagree on that part, Bruce. We’re still parked outside my apartment,” Jeremiah suggests jokingly as he glances at the direction of the nearby building, “I could... make us dinner, if you’d like.” Bruce’s eyes noticeably darts towards it, returning shortly after to Jeremiah’s face only to lower his gaze slowly to meet his lips, lingering as his own lips, as though involuntarily, part slightly, and breathing, all of a sudden, becomes a chore for Jeremiah. He _knows_ that look. He’s seen it before. Perhaps, the suggestion of inviting Bruce to his apartment and only Bruce alone is a mistake because now, his mind is racing and his heart is pounding at the memory of… 

“We need to stick to the plan,” Bruce swallows visibly, tearing his eyes away as he reaches for the handbrake, seemingly flustered all of a sudden, “Your apartment will, um… It will have to wait.” Now, the question of whether Bruce is flustered for the same reason as Jeremiah himself remains unanswered as they drive away, but Jeremiah has always been fairly accurate when it comes to guessing. **  
**

~~~~

Browsing one channel after another, Jerome passes time in the only way he knows how in this godforsaken building, picking absent-mindedly at his luxurious red robes before huffing dramatically out of genuine boredom. Succeeding the clusterfuck at Dixon Docks that had rocked an entire city, his higher ups have concluded that revoking his outdoor privileges would do well for everyone else’s sake, forcing Jerome to once again lay low for the time being or, at least, until the next week. A preposterous decision made by even more preposterous bastards attempting to contain the situation, except what’s the difference now between him and a caged circus animal? Well, apart from the fact that he’s living under Galavan’s roof in his lavish penthouse, sleeping in a bedroom with a humongous window looking out to the best parts of the city, and eating to look like Robert Baratheon, _what difference is there_? The sides of his lips quirk upward. Obviously, he’s got no reason to complain, but Jerome does so anyway because he’s just _that_ bored. If Jeremiah were here, he’d smack him with a book right across the back of his head for being an ungrateful guest. Then again, if Jeremiah _were_ actually here, Jerome would’ve kicked the shit out of that son of a bitch for turning things awry between them and also, letting him leave in the first fucking place. 

Lips pressing into a thin line, Jerome tosses the remote aside onto the couch. At least, it’s just until next week; being cooped up in paradise, that is. After all, the show must go on and Jerome expects it to be a _very_ momentous performance of theatrics, drama, chaos, and all the other qualities that’s perceived by the general public to be outstanding edge-of-the-seat entertainment, which is technically the reason why an oil tank pumped full of fuel is the top priority on their list. Let it be known that smuggling the entire truck wasn’t exactly an easy feat, but it’s worth it, for fuel equals fire and fire equals the sweet enthralling screams of the innocent targeted elderlies and oh _, just think of how much fun this is going to be_ ! That’ll give Gotham something to _really_ talk about. Feet tapping giddily on carpeted floor, Jerome snatches the remote from the couch as he attempts to channel surf once more in search for programmes to waste more time on before a shuffling of feet distracts him from the television. Nobody said anything about heading out today,  so why the hell is everyone fully dressed? As Jerome stands on his feet, Greenwood approaches with his hands held upfront as though he’s asking Jerome to calm down before breaking it to him, “The boss wants you to stay put.”

Jerome frowns as, one by one, the others leave. “Come again?”

“That’s what he said,” Greenwood shrugs, stepping aside to lead Aaron to the door.

“And fucking do what?!” 

“Hey, I’m just the messenger, kid.”

Aaron nods with a sympathetic smile before disappearing to join the others while Greenwood simply waves dismissively at him as he tags along. 

“Figure it out,” that whoreson says and Jerome, listening to Greenwood for the first time, tries.

Just what the hell is going on? 

Leaving him out? Keeping him in the dark?

To what does he owe the pleasure? 

A moment of realization then is all it takes for Jerome to retreat cautiously to his room, wrecking his rotting brain to strategize the next best move, all while rueing the fucking day he’d agreed to Butch Gilzean and Oswald Cobblepot’s pestilential terms.

 ******  
**

~~~~

Here’s a predicament.

Never have Jeremiah anticipated to have a peculiar thought like _this one_ cross his mind but, as unpredictable as life is, it’s eminently reasonable to assume that the probability of it occurring exists, and what he’s trying to say is that, at this moment in the continuum of space and time, it turns out that trusting Bruce is a mistake. 

It’s true.

The moment when Jeremiah had, upon arrival, laid eyes on the _‘restaurant’_ that Bruce had booked a table for this evening is the moment when treachery and betrayal, forced unto him by Bruce’s bare words, prompt his consideration to retract a slight degree of trust from its prior emplacement on the boy, and then persuade Bruce, in any ways that he can, to either turn the car around or simply drive away. He’d attempted it, but with embarrassing failure. “I expected that reaction,” Bruce had snorted with laughter, parking the car instead and, much to his horror, turning off the ignition as well. “Easy, Jeremiah. It’s just dinner.” Well, sure, it would have been fine if it was any other restaurant in Gotham City but Akrivós is, by a mile, stupendously _far_ from any other restaurant. “How so?” Bruce then threw him the fairly redundant question with an unfairly charming twinkle in his eyes. 

“Should we start with the look of the building, Bruce? It’s a four-storey high Greek mansion of twenty thousand square feet, fronted with six colossal corinthian columns that look like they were stolen from the national museum in Washington DC! Does this in any way constitute as a normal restaurant t-no, this isn’t funny, Bruce. I-I’m being dead serious right now, _stop laughing_ -”

In fact, the boy was wheezing. “I’m sorry, but this is ridiculous,” Bruce had blurted out.

“ _You’re_ ridiculous.” As difficult as it was, Jeremiah had tried his damned hardest not to laugh along. Truly, he did, though smiling, on the contrary, is a whole other story. “This is absurd.”

“Come on, Jeremiah, we’re going to be late.”

“No, I agreed to dining at a restaurant. This isn’t a restaurant.”

“Well, technically, it _is_.”

Cue one awkward pause. “Alright, fine, but still, you lied to get me here. I-”

“Would you have come if I told you?” Bruce questioned, biting at his lower lip to suppress a giggle, “It was nothing but a white lie.”

“It remains a lie, nonetheless, Bruce.”

And so, their banter continued, though a newly discovered fact registered itself in Jeremiah’s brain shortly after, and it’s the fact that winning an argument against Bruce Wayne is literally, discernibly, indubitably, and incontestably impossible. It’s astonishing on Bruce’s part, frankly. One minute, the two of them were still bickering lightly in the black Mercedes, what with Jeremiah standing his ground - or, in actuality, glueing himself to the seat, refusing to leave - and Bruce putting in tremendous effort to cajole the stubborn redhead into bending completely to his will. Fast forward to the next minute, Jeremiah was tagging along wordlessly - shoulders rigid, fists clenched, eyes hilariously wide with undisguised discomfort and panic - as Bruce led him through a beautifully decorated courtyard in the theme of Ancient Greece towards the golden entrance of said _‘restaurant’_ , smugly. 

Bolting from the scene - as humiliating as the act can be - was a highly sensible and considerable choice, but it was already too late when a receptionist had stopped them in their tracks to greet Bruce courteously and sparing only a fleeting glance at Jeremiah before leading them into the mansion of heavenly white interiors and exquisite marble flooring and, much to Jeremiah’s nagging distress, no possible escape routes in sight. The washroom, albeit a practical alternative, wouldn’t have in any way sufficed. Adding more to Jeremiah’s distress, the dining hall in Akrivós seemed to stretch endlessly as well, driving his growing anxiety up the wall, or shall he say, up the in-hall corinthian columns that led to a strikingly high ceiling of pulchritudinous murals and intricate embroideries. Quickening his pace to close the distance between him and Bruce, Jeremiah had then garnered enough courage to peek at his surroundings - whilst eyes still wide with panic - only to find that both the waiters and customers alike in the vicinity were _also_ staring back with equally wide bewildered eyes, and Jeremiah decided that it was enough peeking for the time being. Additionally, once again, adding much more to Jeremiah’s distress, Bruce, as it turned out, had taken the liberty to book one of the tables arranged in the middle of the vastly prodigious dining hall so as to accommodate Jeremiah’s unabating need to be at the center of attention throughout the rest of the evening because that’s what he had _clearly_ wanted, obviously.

And that’s the predicament. 

Onward with the story.

“Um... Bruce?”

“Yes, Jeremiah?”

“I'd like to request for an exchange of seats...”

The boy only snorts out of amusement in response.

“Bruce, _please_ ,” Jeremiah leans forward, half-whispering his discomfort as he shifts uneasily in his seat, “The guest behind you has been glaring at me for the past seven minutes and I would very much like to move out of his line of sight.”

"Pay him no mind, Jeremiah. Eyes on me.”

" _I can’t_ ,” Jeremiah half-whispers again, half-panicking at the same time, “Bruce, you don’t understand. He's barely touched a thing on his plate because for the past seven going on eight minutes, _the man hasn’t once stopped staring a_ -" Jeremiah cuts himself off when he mistakenly glances over at the other table, freezing frightfully like a deer in headlights. "N-Now his wife’s staring too." 

At that moment, or a mere few seconds prior, due to making an unfortunate decision at a rather inopportune time to chug the remaining portion of red wine in his half-empty glass, Bruce almost chokes with laughter - well, actually, not almost because he does choke a little - and as the boy coughs helplessly with a tingling burn in his throat, his eyes watering, Jeremiah’s just about to rush to his aid out of instinct before Bruce quickly holds up a hand, beckoning for him to stay put instead.

So, palms resting against the table, hindered in his actions, Jeremiah could only ask out of genuine concern, “Bruce, are you alright?”

To which Bruce nods reassuringly, two coughs later, letting his own hand fall then to rest gently atop their table. “Is… Is she, um…” Clearing his throat, the boy attempts to speak once again, this time with less difficulty and the sides of his lips strangely begin to quirk upward. “See, considering that I’m sitting at this angle, Jeremiah, it’s a little difficult for me to turn around. So, could you, um, perhaps describe in _full_ detail, with as much accuracy as possible, of the way in which she’s staring at you so that I could visualize it better in my head?” And with that, Bruce literally cracks up, somehow finding hilarity in one of the most uncomfortable situations that Jeremiah has ever been so ill-fatedly cursed with, and his concern for Bruce’s well-being slightly dissipates because it’s quite obvious now that he’s going to be absolutely alright.

“You’re unbelievable,” Jeremiah states incredulously and Bruce is laughing again, “Please, now’s not the time to fool around, Bruce. For God’s sake, a little help would be much appreciated to rid me from this preposterous conundrum."

“That’s unnecessary,” Bruce retorts playfully as he refills his glass with more wine, “I think that you’re doing fine.”

"Well, _I_ think that this is a mistake."

“That, I can’t agree."

"This whole plan of yours is a mistake."

“Far from the truth."

“Bruce, I highly doubt th-"

“Just stay calm, Jeremiah, everything’s going according to plan. In fact, this is precisely the outcome that I was hoping for.” Speaking calmly in a hushed voice, Bruce takes a careful sip from his wine, arching an eyebrow as he does.

Cue one awkward pause on Jeremiah’s end. "Wait, what do you mean?"

Without prior warning, Bruce winks at him, and Jeremiah’s throat runs dry.

“Now, tell me, are they still watching you?”

“Y-Yes…”

“Good,” Bruce nods in delight, standing onto his feet all of a sudden as he gestures for Jeremiah to do the same, “Let us introduce ourselves, shall we?" 

Panic suddenly arises in Jeremiah’s gut and, in an instant, he reaches over to grab hold of the boy’s sleeve. “B-Bruce, what are you doing?”

“Helping you,” Bruce beams as though all is fine in this world, “Come along, Jeremiah.”

Swiftly, the boy’s arm slips away as he proceeds to saunter towards the stranger’s table, prompting Jeremiah to stand abruptly as well, which, in doing so, ends up unintentionally startling an elderly woman at a nearby table with an ear-piercing screech of his chair, ripping out a high-pitched ‘ _OH!_ ’ which then, in its all too sudden incursion, startled her equally elderly husband as well. Cursing under his breath before uttering the sincerest of apologies for almost simultaneously scaring the couple into cardiac arrest, Jeremiah later rejoins Bruce, only to realize, as he approaches, that the two have already formerly met and that Jeremiah would’ve been made an acquaintance too had he stayed a little while longer at Wayne Enterprises a few years back. 

"It's a pleasure seeing you here, Lucius."

"Pleasure's all mine, Bruce," greets Lucius Fox as he stands out of mutual respect, "I see that you’ve brought along a new friend."

"Indeed, I have. Allow me to introduce to you Jeremiah Valeska," Bruce says, resting a palm onto his extremely tensed right shoulder, "Our newest addition to Wayne Corp's engineering department." 

A split second is all it takes for Jeremiah to snap his head towards Bruce’s direction, eyes widening with even more bewilderment. A fabricated statement? One possibly stemming from his covertly devised ploy? Highly likely, yet it brings up a third question thereafter of why Bruce would bear false witness to the sensitive subject of Jeremiah’s employment under Wayne Enterprises in the presence of listening ears? Surely, Bruce _must_ know of the severity of his consequences in the unforeseeable event of a backfiring plan, especially when his own untarnished reputation is put on the line for Jeremiah’s avail, along with the august name of an established multi-billion dollar corporation as well as the unsullied report of his father’s.

Unless...

"Perhaps I've missed the memo," says Lucius as he slowly turns to face Jeremiah, extending his hand out of meagre courtesy, "Welcome to Wayne Corp, Mr. Valeska." 

Jeremiah reciprocates the handshake, fumbling awkwardly at the same time as he finds his voice to say thanks, and all too soon, the comforting weight of Bruce’s palm vanishes from his rigid shoulder, prompting Jeremiah to swallow uneasily as he attempts to soothe the rising ball of nervous energy settling at the base of his throat.

"Jeremiah will be commencing his employment immediately after graduation,” adds Bruce, “Which should be around the time when you’ll be taking over Jacobs as Business Manager, am I right?”

“Yes, indeed,” Lucius nods, mirroring the friendly smile that’s plastered on the boy’s face, “The timing, it seems, couldn’t have been better.”

“I agree,” Bruce says, “As you know, my father firmly believes that the success of Wayne today depends profoundly on the contributions of each individual, be it big or small, so we’re more than glad to have the both of you, with your incomparable brilliance and dexterities, to work alongside the Stakhanovites of the company to bring us another step forward.”

“Wow, that almost sounds like an exaggeration of fatuous flattery, which is so much more than I can handle,” Lucius laughs at his own joke, turning to exchange a look of fondness with his wife before returning to face Bruce, the friendliness in his smile noticeably faltering, “Most certainly, I’ll do what I can. After all, Wayne Enterprises is as important to me as it is to you and your father. That being so, I can, with confidence, promise you, Bruce, that I will not under any circumstances stand by if something or someone threatens the standing of this company and its goodwill, as it is _my_ duty to keep it up and running at all costs. I’m sure you understand, Bruce.”

It’s crystal clear to Jeremiah that Lucius is more than upset with the news of his employment, though judging by his current state of affairs, who in Wayne Enterprises wouldn’t be?

“Which is why we’re fortunate to have Jeremiah on the team, aren’t we?” The comforting weight of Bruce’s palm returns as he claps his hand onto his shoulder, seemingly as a direct emphasis, which also indirectly gives Jeremiah much more confidence to stand his ground as Lucius darts distrustful eyes towards him. "With his benefactions and yours, I can safely say that Wayne Corp is in good hands. It’s not a departure from the truth to note that my father sees potential in Jeremiah just as much as he sees in you. Otherwise, he wouldn't have personally called to get him onboard in the first place."

Right then and there, Jeremiah stills immediately at Bruce’s startling claim.

How did he know of the call? 

By any chance, it would’ve been impossible for Bruce to have overheard either of them over the course of their off-the-record conversation, especially when the three involved were scattered around different parts of Gotham City at the time. Hence, could Bruce have, at one point, overheard something that he shouldn’t have in his home? Highly likely. Or, could Thomas Wayne have possibly educated Bruce of the unreliable facts, those once spewed by Jeremiah himself, that had somewhat made up his muddled past? Equally probable, as well. 

"If that's truly the case, Mr. Valeska, it looks like you have a bright and promising future ahead of you." 

Lucius Fox, for the first time this evening, smiles at his direction, yet Jeremiah could tell that his outward display of amiability is, unmistakably, forced.

“Well, we’ve bothered you for long enough.” Apparently, Bruce sees it too, and despite the threatening hostility that is brewing in their conversation with Lucius, his conviviality holds. “And it looks like our dinner has arrived, Jeremiah. Shall we?”

Wordlessly, Jeremiah nods, a calming wave of relief washing over him as Bruce flashes a broad grin, politely excusing themselves from his friend’s table in favor of them returning to theirs, and as they turn around, an unsettling feeling of cautious eyes boring into the back of his skull twists Jeremiah’s gut, along with the disquieting murmur of guests chattering amongst themselves as they throw unwelcomed glances at his way.

“You’ll get used to the spotlight,” Bruce whispers reassuringly as Jeremiah tries to settle comfortably in his cushioned seat, “God knows that it took me a while.”

"Bruce, I… I need to ask you something.”

“Sure,” the boy casually responds as he grabs the knife and fork arranged neatly before him.

“How did you know that Mr. Wayne had called to offer me the job? Did… did he tell you?"

Bruce’s unfaltering smile remains as he cuts into his steak. "He told me a lot of things about you, Xander." As the boy props a piece into his mouth, eyes still twinkling, Jeremiah is hit hard with the sudden realization that it’s all just part of the show, that Bruce isn’t at all _that_ happy to see him, that the anomalous jovial mood that Bruce had so expertly exhibited from the moment Jeremiah had climbed into his car is meant to do nothing else other than to rein in Jeremiah’s unthwarted receptiveness to his well-formulated plan. It has to be. It _has_ to be because the fact is… The truth is that Bruce is furious. He has to be. He… He has to be.

"I’m sorry, Bruce."

“What for?”

“Not telling you the truth.”

His smile falters, finally, and Bruce quietly reaches for his glass of wine.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not here, Jeremiah.”

“I-”

“We’re _not_ doing this here,” Bruce clears his throat as he cuts into his steak, propping another piece into his mouth and Jeremiah’s heart sinks as the boy looks up, dawning yet another smile upon his face. “Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

Eyes downcasted with defeat and guilt, Jeremiah nods, picking up the knife and fork arranged neatly before him as he begins to cut into his own steak. 

“Let’s,” Jeremiah obliges.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one that took forever! 
> 
> It's becoming a pattern now, isn't it?
> 
> First of all, thank you so much for coming back to this story yet again! It truly means so much to me that you're still onboard and spending time to read it! Honestly, I feel like I can't and don't thank you guys enough, so these hearts are for you for now ♡♡♡
> 
> I'm sorry to say that I can't meet the two-week dateline as well, seeing that my work has been taking up too much time and energy, and then piled on with writer's block and yup, updating is hard, but I'll still try my very best to update as early as I can in the future! And also, I'm actually rushing off to work now, so I hope that you're doing well and that your life's going great! One more month until 2020! Woooo~
> 
> And finally, last but not least, you have a great, great day! :D


	20. Chapter 20

Fear.

Albeit a rare manifestation, the burden of this peculiar emotion is not at all unfamiliar to Jerome because it does, unfortunately, surface upon certain occasions, most prominently those that involve his pain-in-the-ass brother’s wellbeing and overall safety. He’s figured it out. Jerome wishes that he hadn’t, but he  _ has _ , and it triggers an unbidden deliberation of decisions that may or may not be beneficial to his situation. With that being said, just how in the hell is he supposed to leave this building unnoticed? Forget making it to the elevator. Hell, there’s no way that he could even make it ten feet out of his own room… or perhaps, he could. If memory serves him right, most of the boss’ goons may have already left with Greenwood, leaving the penthouse unguarded, if not less. An opening is all that he needs. Biting anxiously at his nails, Jerome refuses to admit that he is in fact a tad bit on edge, staring out the bedroom window at the nightlights of Gotham down below as he silently plots to get his little brother out of the city. 

Fear, to Jerome, isn’t knowing that Theo Galavan has figured  _ him  _ out of his traitory, but instead, it’s the frightening aftermath that will inevitably befall Jeremiah if and once he had.

Time is running out.

He strides towards the door, creaking it open to check if the coast is clear before stepping out into the empty hallway of Galavan’s penthouse. Quietly, Jerome shuts the door behind him, risking everything in hand as he attempts his impolitic escape. Concurrently, in a seemingly old abandoned warehouse hidden miles away from Gotham City, a boisterous parade of deafening gunfire blasts through the crowded compound as mayor-to-be candidate, Oswald Cobblepot, ducks for cover in his barricaded office, miraculously dodging a stray bullet whilst running up a ricketing set of stairs that leads towards it. Gun in hand, Oswald braces himself, sitting onto the oakwood flooring with his aching back against the wall, the sound of approaching footsteps rushing towards his safe room stirs a most unsettling feeling in his gut, but as a familiar beep sounds before his door is swung open, signifying a successful security bypass, Oswald catches a glimpse of his old friend and allows himself to breathe in with relief.

“Mr. Cobblepot!” Arthur Penn calls out as he slams the door shut, reporting immediately of the catastrophe transpiring downstairs, “Sir, the mercenaries. The-They’ve destroyed most of our cargo. There’s almost nothing left!”

An explosion rattles the office walls, and Oswald grits his teeth, rueing the day that he’d once spared the man’s life at gunpoint out of the goodness of his heart. Those masked mercs may be unrecognizable, but at this point, anyone can palpably make an educated guess as to who's marshalling them. Enraged, Oswald slams his trembling fist against a nearby desk as he scrambles onto his feet, resting more weight on one than the other. “I’LL HAVE HIS FUCKING HEAD!!!” Arthur flinches fearfully at his wrath. Oswald knows. Regretfully, he  _ knows  _ that he should’ve ended Galavan years ago. If it weren’t for Edward, Oswald himself would’ve pulled the trigger in a heartbeat, and none of this would even be happening as of right fucking now.

“Get me Valeska.”

“But he’s impossible to reach-”

"I DON’T CARE for whatever it is that you have to do or however long it takes!” Oswald snarls, “I want you to bring me Jerome Valeska and I want you to bring him to me this instant!"

******  
**

~~~~ **  
**

 

The drive home is quiet.

It's awfully, painfully, quiet.

Leaving Akrivós, the Greek mansion duplicating as a renowned eatery for the prestigious and influential, marks the distressing exordium of Bruce’s silence that torments Jeremiah from the moment that the two had departed from the building to make their way, wordlessly, through a decorated courtyard that leads to the parking area. Head lowered, Jeremiah watches the boy from the corners of his eyes, willingly accommodating the quiet exchange that had settled in between them. Bruce, as breathtaking as he is beautiful, looks angelic under the spotlight illuminating the courtyard as he strolls by the aesthetic backdrop of polished white statues - blurred in Jeremiah’s vision - resembling those belonging to Ancient Greece. It would’ve most certainly been a perfect evening, one memorable rendezvous that would last a lifetime if not for Jeremiah’s own infelicitous turn of life’s events.

The radio plays softly in the cabin of the vehicle.

"Bruce..."

"Yes, Jeremiah?"

He swallows, anxiously. "Do you wish to talk now? I… I reckon that I owe you an explanation."

"You don't owe me anything," Bruce shakes his head slowly, "What you choose to tell about your past is none of my business. I'm rational enough to understand that."

"...but?"

To his surprise, Bruce releases a tired sigh before carrying on as though with defeat, "I just can't fathom as to why you'd keep it to yourself. Xander Wilde is one of the most respected names in the company, and those involved with the Wayne Plaza project had only good things to say about your work. My father’s no exception. You've done so much on your own, yet choose not to take credit and I just… I don't understand the reason behind it, Jeremiah. Two years ago, you were adamant on hiding yourself from the spotlight, but now, with your generator, you’re somewhat willing enough to step into it. Look, I’m not asking for an explanation. More than anything, I respect your decision to keep your past to yourself, but I  _ am _ genuinely trying to help. Though, it seems that I've stepped into it thinking that I knew everything there is about you when I clearly don't. All of a sudden, it just… somehow feels as though I’ve never really known you at all to begin with.”

Disappointment riddles Bruce’s voice which, to Jeremiah, is much, much worse than anger.

“Truth be told, I was looking forward to meeting you at the grand opening, Jeremiah, but you weren't even there."

Taken aback, the redhead straightens abruptly in his seat. 

“Bruce, I-”

A misunderstanding. 

That’s all this is, because in actual fact, he  _ had  _ been. 

If memory serves him well, a young joyous Bruce had erst stood onstage by his father’s side at the celebration of the newly erected Wayne Plaza, all whilst Jeremiah - evidently present - stood hidden amongst the bustling crowd of guests and reporters flooding the audience's arena, and up to a certain point, Jeremiah clearly remembers that he’d hated every single second of it. For with every unwelcomed brush of shoulders or the growing lack of breathing room, it’d suffocated him. He’d thought then that, perhaps, flushing his pills down the toilet was a mistake after all, one that Jerome had yet to discover at the time. Peering over the crowd, he’d made sure that his brother was still waiting for him in the car, ever ready to leave when being in the heavy crowd becomes too overwhelming to cope with. Fortunately,  _ that  _ never came to be, for once the boy had finally emerged onstage, everything else faded in significance, and all Jeremiah could see for the rest of the ceremony was only Bruce.

Voice barely a whisper, Jeremiah mutters under his breath. “I was there.” 

It earns him a surprised side-way glance. “You were?”

“A few rows behind the reporters. Amongst the crowd. I’m sorry to disappoint, Bruce, but it was... best for me, at the time, to not draw any attention to myself." _And my brother_. On the run from the circus, they were, after all.

“Did my father know?”

“Of what?”

“That you showed up, Jeremiah.”

“He did.” The redhead holds his breath. “In fact, he'd helped arrange for it."

The boy stares ahead at the road. Quiet contemplation. Streetlights fly by above the vehicle, one after another. “I suppose that his collusion in preserving your secrecy is more intricate than I’d previously imagined."

"Bruce, please understand that your father’s involvement mainly constitutes accommodating  _ me _ ," reassures Jeremiah, "There is no collusion. Mr. Wayne is simply an all too generous employer who’d done more for everyone else than he does for himself. I, for one, can vouch for that. No matter the absurdity of my requests, your father had never once turned me down. There’d always be a workaround or a solution to any problem, and attending the grand opening was one of them."

Bruce nods, as though absentmindedly. “That sounds like him.” The boy clears his throat. “He mentioned that you’d refused your full payment, Jeremiah. Do you mind if I ask why?”

Smothered by his built-up, gut-wrenching guilt, Jeremiah answers Bruce with nothing but the truth, which is both absolutely impulsive  _ and  _ reckless beyond the comprehension of his disjointed mind.

"It didn't feel right."

An irreversible mistake. One that he realizes too late.

"Why’s that?" The boy prods further.

He doesn't wish to lie, but at the same time, Bruce  _ mustn't _ learn the truth.

He can't...

"Jeremiah?"

It'd be the end of the both of them. **  
**

 

~~~~ **  
**

 

In the midst of navigating through an annoyingly narrow hallway of said opulent penthouse, Jerome halts abruptly, stopping dead in his tracks. Fists balling. At the end of the corridor, Theo Galavan awaits, blocking his path. “Off to somewhere?” Even from afar, the innocuous smile plastered on his employer’s face disgorges ingenuity. Jerome is trapped. Gritting his teeth, the redhead forges an affable grin, successfully enshrouding the budding concern that is infecting his systems, and pretending as though he isn’t afraid of his own dire consequences - or rather, his twin brother’s - if he fails to make it out of this godforsaken building in time. 

“If I told you that you’re out of Doritos and I’m heading out to get some, would you believe me?”

“I would’ve if I hadn’t had known what I do now.” 

His grin falters, slightly. 

"I have to say that I'm rather disappointed, Jerome. Knowing you… Well, it's so unlike  _ you _ to be making such rash decisions," his employer takes a menacing step forward, "Unless, of course, there's your brother involved."

“Ah, well, knowing me, you’d know that I’m prone to being a  _ little _ sentimental like that," Jerome fakes a casual shrug, “Can’t help it even if I wanted to.”

A strained laugh escapes Galavan's throat. "See, one thing that I do find admirable about you, kid, is your outstanding ability to hide  _ fear _ ." He takes another step forward, and Jerome does all he can to stand his ground without breaking a sweat. "It's what makes you unpredictable. It's what makes you… You." A third step forward. "It's also a shame, really, for us to have to come to this. For once I become mayor, this city would have incontrovertibly been yours as well, but as the truth laid bare, you’ve chosen to betray me, Jerome. A tad bit ungrateful, I’d say, considering all that I've done for you. I mean, why bite the hand that fed you? Even then, after finding out, I'd insisted on giving you one chance after another to prove my suspicions wrong but, time and time again, you've done nothing but spat in my face."

His blood runs cold. Jerome attempts to scour for a way out, but it’s clear that confrontation is inevitable. "I didn't have a choice." He can only hope that Galavan’s in the mood to be reasoned with. "My brother's not a part of any of this. Do whatever you want with me, but please, I'm begging you, don't hurt him."

“Do you really think that you’re in any position to bargain?” Galavan questions, “I can have one of my men snap his neck just like that and you wouldn’t even have a say to stop it.”

“He fucking had a gun on him." Jerome almost raises his voice out of aggravation. Almost. "What the hell was I supposed to do?"

“That’s your mess, Jerome. You created it the moment you made the decision to bring your brother along.” With that, Galavan sighs, tugging at the blazer of his suit, lips quirked. “Why don’t you ever listen? How many more times do I have to reiterate that family  _ is  _ weakness? Face it, you’ll never be truly free so long as you live by your brother’s rules. I mean, just look at you! Trapped in a corner now like some wounded circus animal, all because of the fact that you couldn’t get rid of the only burden that's holding you back, and it's absolutely pathetic. You could've been so much more if you'd just cut him off from the beginning like I'd told you to."

Why, ain’t that true...

Jerome scowls at his own traitorous subconscious, shoving away the meddling thought into the deepest crevasse of his mind where it belongs. Jeremiah is his responsibility. "He's my brother.” It’s  _ his _ job to look after him. “He needs me...”

Somehow, his words elicit a soft chuckle from the other’s throat, followed by the raising of a question of, "Are you sure?" And his tightly balled fists slacken in strength.

Jeremiah does.

There’s no doubt that his twin needs him. 

There’s no doubt about that at all...

"More than you need him?”

Yes.

Yes, of course...

He's sure of it. 

In fact, Jeremiah  _ should  _ need him even more, given the fact that he's practically helpless without him.

He does.

"Lying to yourself won't make it true, Jerome."

No, Jeremiah  _ does _ . He…

Out of nowhere, something suddenly snaps in Jerome, stretching chapped lips across his face, and extorting a grating manic cackle from his throat that startles even Theo Galavan himself. Head thrown back, he’s unable to suppress his own neurotic laughter whilst Galavan watches, unamused. Does Jeremiah even care for him anymore? Not to sound petty, but seriously, with the billionaire rat skulking about, could he actually? "You’re right,” Jerome chokes out, laughter dying down gradually as he’s overwhelmed by an equally sudden wave of dejection crashing into his chest and core, “You’re absolutely right, but like I said, I can’t help it.” The redhead grits his teeth. “He’s under my skin.” Despite everything, his brother’s safety still is his utmost priority, so much so that Jerome’s willing to give his life right then and there if it means Jeremiah’s getting out of  _ his  _ mess unscathed. The question of whether their propinquity remains unchanged in his twin’s book will have to wait. He can't afford to have Galavan stall him any longer. Jeremiah’s running out of fucking time. “Just let him go, please. I’ll stay right here. You won’t even have to tie me up,” he pleads, “Say the word, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

Sounds like a good enough trade, right?

As if on cue, the faint sound of a vibrating cell phone breaks the momentary silence in between them, and Jerome watches anxiously as his employer retrieves the device from the pocket of his trousers, bringing it up against his ear.  _ Please, don’t let it be Jeremiah. _ A smile begins to form on his employer’s face.  _ Please, don’t let it be.  _ Their eyes meet, and Theo Galavan flashes him a minaciuos grin. “It looks like your brother’s just arrived home,” Galavan announces, “And he’s not alone.”

Cold sweat drips from his temple.

Jerome’s already too late. **  
**

 

~~~~

He wasn’t left with much of a choice.

Fabricating lies, as Jeremiah often does, serves prominently the purpose of protecting himself and his brother, though some occasions, at times, do require a slight distortion of the truth for his own acquisitive convenience. It’s a learned habit, Jeremiah surmises. As children, lying through their teeth to get themselves out of trouble is the only way that the twins knew how. It’s not as though it naturally comes to them, well, instinctively. Maybe it does for Jerome, but it’s certainly not the case for Jeremiah himself. He’s sure of it. Be that as it may, despite his experiences of not dealing with much impediments when lying with a straight face, the last thirty minutes of disingenuity and spewing deceit was downright hell. Mayhaps, it had to do with the fact that the other person in the conversation just so happened to be Bruce.

Jeremiah couldn’t bear it, but what else could he do?

If or when Bruce discovers the truth, how would he look at him?

What would he think of him?

The monster that he was.

_ “Fine, I yield!” Jerome exclaimed tiredly, shoulders lowering with defeat, “Bruce Wayne is throwing this fucking party.” _

_ His eyes widened at the mention of the name and Jeremiah spun around to make sure that his brother wasn’t using it to mess with him. Apparently, as rare as it could be, Jerome was actually telling the truth. _

_ “Bruce?” _

_ “Yes, Bruce,” Jerome recalled contemplatively, “Look, broski, I remember the way you talked about the Wayne kid when you were attached to that Wayne Plaza project with Thomas Wayne. Now, I admit that it was a little weird to find out that you were crushing on a minor two years back-” _

_ “Jerome, stop.” _

It was wrong of him to entertain those salacious thoughts. 

_ "No one's going to believe you. I remember the things you told me about him. Oh, how could I forget!" _

_ "Jerome, don't," he warned him. _

_ "You were obsessed with the kid," his brother carried on despite his warning, "I remember everything, broski, including finding your stash of newspaper cut-outs of young Brucie boy under your bed." _

It was wrong of him to take despicable actions on them.

_ “I manage well alone,” Jeremiah nodded with a polite smile, “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Wayne, I really do, but I’ve gotten used to handling things on my own.” That was a lie. An anxious feeling crept its way into his system, and Jeremiah shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was almost time for his pill. He dreaded it. _

_ “Speaking of which, I think my son has arrived,” his employer mentioned, “Please, excuse me for a short moment.” _

_ Nodding, Jeremiah maintained the smile on his face before bringing the mug to his lips, sipping. Wayne Plaza, his creation, his pride, his mark on the city. He scanned over the drafts splayed on the large rounded desk once again, standing from his seat to get a better view as he took another sip from his mug. A moving figure distracted him from the corner of his eye and Jeremiah glanced at its direction, not knowing what he would find, not bothered either. Then, he froze, and so did time. _

_ Beauteous. Bonny. Bewitching. _

_ The boy was beautiful.  _

_ His build, svelte. His face, endearing. His innocence, entrancing. Oh, and that smile. That lovely smile.  _

_ Jeremiah was enthralled. _

He was, without the slightest doubt, wrong in so many ways.

Parked outside the building of his apartment, Jeremiah shifts uneasily in the leather seat of the vehicle, a broiling uncertainty and ineradicable guilt clawing at the walls of his brittle mind. It’s best if he leaves. Stuttering his thanks for the dinner and the ride home, Jeremiah reluctantly reaches for the door handle before Bruce’s voice draws him back, erasing almost immediately of his prior intention of departing too soon, and Jeremiah turns around to find Bruce watching him intently.

He gulps.

“I understand that bringing up the past can sometimes be difficult, Jeremiah. Painful, even. But do know that if you ever need someone to talk to, I'll always be only a call away." The boy smiles, warm and comforting. Jeremiah doesn't deserve it. "You ought to be exhausted, I presume, considering how stressful dinner had been for you," Bruce teases lightly, and Jeremiah lets out a small laugh.

“Well, you weren't exactly the one being stared down by every single rich folk in the mansion where you can casually label as a restaurant throughout the entire evening,” Jeremiah arches an eyebrow as he mutters his complaint, and Bruce's smile simply widens in response.

“The beginning is always the most challenging," the boy reassures, "But the result at the end is what matters most, won't you agree?"

"How many more of these do we have to partake, Bruce?"

"As many as needed," he says, “Unfortunately, a single appearance is, at times, insufficient to make a lasting impression. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling meet-ups with some potential buyers who’re interested in your generator and who also happen to be business partners of Wayne Corp, a few bump-ins with reporters outside campus, as well as a live interview on the Murray Franklin show which will be in a week or so."

Flummoxed, Jeremiah’s eyes widen out of utter bewilderment. “Li… Live television?”

Reaching over, Bruce gently cups his face, fingers tracing the bottom of his jaw as the boy leans forward, and air escapes from Jeremiah’s lungs. “You’ll be fine,” he reassures once again, “Murray’s a friend of my father’s, and he shares the same impression my father has of you. The exposure will do you well.”

“But Jerome…”

“He won’t get to you.” That’s not what he meant. “Security will be doubled on the night of the interview. There’s no way that he can.” It’s not what he’s concerned about. 

Bruce’s plan, as it seems, is to have Jeremiah throw his twin brother under the bus on live television. Granted, his intentions are justifiable, given that he’s gone through so much hassle in helping Jeremiah clear his sullied name. Still and all, it’s too harsh of a punishment. As upset as he remains to be with Jerome, Jeremiah couldn’t possibly drag him through filthy mud for his own selfish perquisite.  _ “It’s my fucking responsibility to take care of you and I did everything that I could!”  _ His brother’s words ring true in his ears. He’s done too much for him. 

He  _ has _ .

“I can’t do that to him,” Jeremiah admits quietly, “He’s my brother.”

“He’s also a wanted fugitive,” Bruce tells him, “You know what he’s charged with.”

“I can’t…” For how could he? “I… Bruce, I owe him too much.”

“Think of all the innocents he’s hurt, Jeremiah. His vile atrocities. That’s not you. It’s  _ not  _ you, Jeremiah, and the people of Gotham needs to know that.”

Defeated, Jeremiah responds with silence, eyes down-casted. 

The warmth of Bruce’s palm against his cheek, consoling. 

What must he do?

What must he not?

“I… I understand if it’s too early to decide,” Bruce lowers his voice to a whisper, “But, please, think it through.”

Absent-mindedly, he nods.

He will.

Before Jeremiah could further contemplate climbing out of the vehicle as well to return to his apartment, Bruce suddenly leans in to capture his lips with his own, and all of Jeremiah’s distress dissolves with each careful tread of fingertips along the side of his face. He’d missed this. Their closeness. Their intimacy. As gentle fingers trail to the back of his neck, Bruce attempts to pull him closer and, easily, Jeremiah succumbs, tilting his head, deepening their kiss. The radio plays softly in the cabin of the vehicle as Jeremiah runs his tongue along the part of Bruce's lips, slipping in and the boy draws out a sharp breath, fingers travelling to red locks, tugging and pulling before settling onto the collar of his white blazer. A graze of teeth on his bottom lip causes the younger to push back the garment, sliding the blazer off Jeremiah's shoulders as the desperation in him grows, moaning softly as Jeremiah's warm tongue prods his. 

It’s not until when the blazer gets caught in Jeremiah’s arms that Bruce pulls away abruptly, lips glistening and eyes blown as he stares into Jeremiah's, as though stunned, and Jeremiah gulps at the sudden loss of contact, flustered beyond comprehension as he sits frozen in place, cold air brushing against the trace of saliva coating reddened lips. 

~~~~

Fists, tightly clenched.

There’s got to be another way out of this mess of a situation.

"Say the word, and I'll do whatever you want," Theo Galavan says mockingly, tilting his head as he does, "That  _ was _ what you said just a couple of minutes ago, was it not? You've bargained your end of the deal and so have I. What seems to be the problem?"

"By whatever, I meant anything but  _ that _ ," Jerome seethes, “Jeremiah’s not cut out for it.”

"You don't get to negotiate my terms," Galavan warns dangerously, waving the cell phone at his direction whilst sporting a sly smile on his face, "Your brother's, well,  _ intimate _ relationship with the Prince of Gotham is extremely useful to us, Jerome. To me, and to my campaign. Surely, by now, you’ve heard from Tabitha of my political stratagem.”

He has, he recalls.

_ “As you know, my brother is very keen on collaborating with Thomas Wayne to secure his position as Gotham’s next mayor,” said Tabitha, “As much as you hate Bruce Wayne’s guts, I think he’d appreciate it if you’re able to persuade the Waynes to join him in this race.” _

“Seeing that my sister’s failed to put you on your path, allow me.”

This won’t do. That little cockroach, Wayne, has got his twin wrapped around his fingers. No matter the severity of the situation, whatever Jerome has got to say ain’t getting through that thick stubborn skull of his. There’s got to be another fucking way. Coaxing is, obviously, out of the equation because that shrewd bastard could see through anything and anyone if he really puts his mind to it. But, hell, he can’t just fucking stroll back into the apartment and demand that Jeremiah listen to him either. What awaits is, undoubtedly, another fucking argument about how Jerome should’ve quit this fucking life when he had the fucking chance and he really doesn’t need to upset Jeremiah more than he already has.

“Patience doesn’t run in my blood,” Theo Galavan utters suddenly, snapping Jerome out of his racing thoughts as he proceeds to put the phone on speaker, “In case you thought that I was bluffing, my men do have him on sight as we speak.” His ear twitches at a muffled yet unmistakable sound of a car door shutting. “Decide  _ now _ , Jerome, or simply hear your brother die screaming.”

“W-Wait, n-” **  
**

 

~~~~

An empty street. 

Quiet. 

Hushed.

Leaves rustle above the desolate sidewalk as Jeremiah looks back at the parked vehicle, dreading the fact that the evening is about to meet its end. Not now. Not when the two of them could finally have a moment to themselves without the prying eyes of others and strangers alike. There’s so much more to talk about, so much more to do that doesn’t have to involve the complications that irk them. The night could simply end with Bruce leaving the apartment as the credits of a random movie roll on the television screen, and it’d be enough for Jeremiah. He’s not asking for much. So long as it puts a smile on Bruce’s face, Jeremiah’s willing to do just about anything.

With the passenger’s window still rolled down, Jeremiah flashes the driver a warm smile as he politely asks, "Would you… um, maybe, like to come up for a drink, Bruce?"

Silence fills in for a brief moment.

"Maybe next time, Jeremiah," says Bruce, his face remaining flushed.

With understanding, he nods. 

Next time, it is then.

As Bruce drives away, leaving him at the sequestered sidewalk, Jeremiah tugs carefully at his dishevelled blazer, smoothing the garment before walking up the path that leads to the building of his apartment when, suddenly, a strange feeling, as unsettling as it is, washes over him, causing Jeremiah to hold his breath and, bit by bit, the redhead turns to his side, cautiously, peering over Stygian grass hedges from where he stands as the sinistrous feeling of being watched continues to crawl ominously under the pores of his skin.  **  
**

 

~~~~

“What’s it going to be, Jerome?”

He doesn’t like the idea, but what other choice has he got? Frankly, Jerome’s starting to hate the fact that all these scumbags are using Jeremiah to bend him against his will, and it’s fucking exhausting. 

“Come on now, I don’t have all night,” Theo Galavan drawls out of impatience, “Neither do you.”

Maybe, by the end of it, Jeremiah would understand that Jerome’s doing it for his sake.

~~~~

Could it be him? 

To think that it would be is astoundingly absurd, but Jeremiah _needs_ to know. The fact that he still misses him is a secret he’s kept even from Bruce, for he wouldn’t have understood. One cannot argue that the boy’s righteous percipience are, undeniably, of only black or white. If only, to his brother, quitting is deemed an option, things could’ve worked out the way they did before. 

Maybe even better.

“Jerome?”

Calling out once, Jeremiah waits for an answer.

~~~~

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Jerome cusses unceremoniously under his breath. He’ll forgive him. “Alright, I’ll do it! Okay?” One fine, sunny day, he will. “I’ll fucking do it.” Hell, he can only hope that Jeremiah would. “Now, call them off,” Jerome exhorts, eyes fixated on the damned phone in his employer’s hand, watching as Galavan raises it to his ear with a smirk plastered on his face, muttering inaudibly into the device. Teeth gritted. His jaw is beginning to hurt.

“I knew you’d come around.” He puts the phone away. “Do what you must,” Theo Galavan says, grinning minaciously, “I’ll be waiting for the good news. Oh, and bear in mind, Jerome, don’t bother trying to leave the city without my knowing. It won’t end well for the both of you.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” the Valeska lies.

“Sure, you weren’t.”

~~~~

Jeremiah waits. 

The question as to why he does lingers in the back of his mind.

_ “I’m staying,” Jeremiah insisted, “I won’t be dragged into your mess, Jerome. When the cops arrive, I’ll tell them that you ran away in the middle of the night, that I don’t know where you are, nor do I care, because we’re done, Jerome.”  _

Remembering their last heated exchange, Jeremiah reckoned he wouldn’t have showed up either if he was his brother. __

_ “Miah, come on!” His twin had drawled with complaint. “You’re such a pain! Y-You know what, suit yourself, broski.”  _ Jerome has every right to be angry.  _ “Suit yourself.” _

Concomitantly, Jeremiah does too, in fact. 

If only Jerome had listened. 

If only he’d given up his discommoding life of pointless crime. 

Enervated, Jeremiah lets out a heavy sigh, shaking his head to himself as he fishes for his keys in one of his pockets, entering the building of his apartment. Supposedly, the whole of next week is going to be hell - given if everything follows in accordance to Bruce’s plan, that is - and despite the fact that he’s agreed to it all, Jeremiah can’t help but dread the pain-staking process that he’ll have to go through to achieve the result that he so desires; the differentiation between him and Jerome in the public eye. An unimpeachable reputation tarnished due to his brother’s vacuous stunts is what Jeremiah wishes to rebuild, along with the trust and credibility earned under his name - his  _ real  _ name - in Gotham’s largest booming industry. Undoubtedly, it will pave a way to the life that he had always dreamed of. One of success, and prominence in contribution to the city, and worth. Natheless, for it to realize, he must first demolish the misbelief and misconception that befogs the public’s perception of him in comparison to his villainous twin, and to do so, well… Jeremiah will cross that bridge when he gets there. 

Though, he does know one thing for certain.

To truly build something, one must first tear down what was already there.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, you guys!
> 
> First of all, pretty sure you know what I'm going to say, and yes, thank you so, so, so much for coming back to this story yet again! Honestly, I thank you guys every single time, and each time, it still feels as though I don't do it enough hahaha :D
> 
> Well, anyways, we're now at the middle of the storyline, and there'll be some scenes where you might find somewhat familiar in the next upcoming chapters. Hopefully, you'll like what I'm adding to the story! Also, I understand that it's taken me quite some time to update new chapters recently, due to the job that I have now, but I hope that I'll be able to meet the deadline again now that the work has decreased a bit. Do know that I'll continue to write until this story ends because there's so much more that I have planned for the future chapters, and if, all of a sudden, I stop updating, well, that just means that I've either lost my laptop and phone altogether, or that I'm dead. Not sure why I'm putting this out here, but it just felt as though I'm obligated to at least clarify.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your time spent on reading this, and the chapter above, of course. ;D
> 
> Have a great day and a greater January!


	21. Chapter 21

Trouncing the side of his head, a throbbing pain lodges. A week. It’s only been merely that. Yet, no sign of one of the most dangerous absconders in Gotham City. Hell, for all he knows, Harvey might’ve been right. Seven days. What’s ample for a felon like Jerome Valeska could’ve been just forty eight hours, provided that he genuinely has the intention to escape the GCPD and leave the city for good. Still and all, he hasn’t, and wouldn’t. Bounded by ‘something’, as intuition prescribes, Valeska is clearly held hostage against his will on the ground, and that means that his impending arrest, be it sooner or later, remains highly viable. 

Arm resting against polished oak, Jim Gordon - evidently drained of energy - forces out a smile as he pushes the apartment door open, hands full with some bags of groceries that his wife had ordered last-minute. “Oh, let me get that.” A familiar warmth radiates through the gentle palm cradling his face, and though it’s enough to lift a bit of weight off his rigid shoulders, his migraine persists. “Thank you for stopping by at the store,” Lee greets cheerfully as she arranges the bags on their kitchen counter, “I would’ve gone if I could, but surprise, surprise, I got held up at work! Again! You’d think that they’d put up some countermeasures to prevent more fights from breaking out, considering that it’s already the third one this week, but really, the management would rather just sit on their asses and do nothing because, apparently, the patients aren’t worth their time.”

“Well, that’s Arkham for you,” says Jim as he gives her an adoring peck on the cheek, “How about that medical practitioner offer? You know, Sarah’s still keeping it open for when you’re ready to jump ship.”

Tilting her head, Lee’s face scrunches up almost hilariously as she reconsiders the vacancy at the GCPD for literally the umpteenth time, asking, “Do you think I should? I mean, how much paperwork are we talking about here?”

“Oh, tonnes,” Jim jokes along lightly, “Mountains of it. Seriously, I’ve heard that they’ll even stack up to as high as the Wayne Tower.”

“ _ Sure _ , Detective.” 

The sass in her voice rings as much as the throbbing pain in his head, and Jim lets out a small reciprocative laugh whilst ridding himself of his coat. “Is that what’s bothering you the most? Reports?”

“Well, that and other things.”

“Nothing you can’t handle,” Jim reassures, rubbing soothing circles around his temple. It’s getting worse. “Frankly, working in law enforcement - or at least, being a part of it -  _ is  _ slightly better than spending twelve hours in an asylum every day. I mean, just saying.”

“From the looks of things, it seems to be about the same.” A palm rests against his forearm. “Another long day at work?”

“It’s nothing.” He looks up. “Just tired, that’s all.”

“It’s got to do with the Galavan case, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but not so much anymore, because now, there’s new evidence pointing to the fact that Jerome Valeska was behind everything all along. The murders, the drugs. It’s as if somebody’s tampered with the truth and wiped Galavan clean. There’s not a single speck of dirt left on his sleeves.”

“My God,” Lee mutters under her breath, “I heard on the news that they’d postponed the trial.” 

“And that’s the reason why.” 

A just decision for an unjust outcome.

“You don’t buy it...”

“Of course, I don’t, Lee. I’m not going to let them take us for fools.” 

“So, that’s why you have the migraine,” his wife deduces, “You’ve been thinking too much, trying to rectify this case.”

“Wait a minute, a-are you analyzing me?”

“I’ll get you something for the pain.” Lee blatantly ignores his question. “In the meantime, stop thinking about anything work-related. You’re home. Let’s focus on that.”

“Sure thing, Doc.”

She returns with a pill and a cup of water, to which Jim gladly takes them from her hands.

“You know, maybe Sarah’s right,” says Lee.

“Hmm?” 

“Why not take a day off? Everybody deserves a little break from time to time, right?”

Emptying the cup, Jim draws back out of slight amusement. “You and the Commissioner have got to stop talking about me behind my back.”

“We’re worried, Jim.”

“Don’t, I’ll be fine,” he waves dismissively.

“And how exactly are you supposed to guarantee that?”

He laughs a little. 

“Jim-”

“Look, I promise you that I’ll take a day off when all of this is done, alright?” He reassures, “Give me some time. I’ll work it out. Sound good?”

It takes a while, but Lee eventually lets out a sigh of defeat. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she mutters, turning her back to him as she proceeds to empty their bags of groceries to store them into the cabinets, and Jim does what he can to help out whilst managing the pain still throbbing in his head.

“You’re beautiful,” Jim remarks whole-heartedly in genuine hope to cheer her up.

‘And you’re stubborn’ is her only retort.

 

~~~~

 

Trudging across the living room, Jerome has his destination set in mind on the refrigerator located at the far corner of the kitchen, one that safekeeps his stash of hard liquor, two odd bottles of beer, and a jug of home-made orange juice that he’d blended the day before out of complete sheer boredom. Confined in such limited space, his stay at the Galavan penthouse is straight out no different from having to serve a sentence in Blackgate Prison. As much information as he’s gotten out of the boss, all Jerome knows is that his so-called expertise is, apparently, not required for the little stunts that Greenwood and the others get to pull around the city before their next big act. Ergo, it’s the ‘indoors’ for Jerome for the time being, and it sucks.

A familiar cue of jazzy, jazz music begins to play from the television and Jerome tries to ignore it as he approaches the corridor that leads to the kitchen.

**_“From NCB Studios in Gotham City, it’s Live! With Murray Franklin. Tonight, Murray welcomes Sandra Winger, comedian Skip Byron, and...”_ **

“Hey, just in time, Gingerbread! C’mon, we saved you a seat!”

Lips pressing into a thin line, his eyes roll to the back of his skull at the obnoxious nickname Greenwood’s given him, and Jerome blatantly dismisses the dramatically incompetent Hannibal Lecter wannabe by walking away, grumbling incoherently under his breath as the television speakers blare nearby. It’s not just the name that agitates him. It’s also the fact that, for the past week or so, the witless imbecile has been rubbing it in his face every single time he decides to boast about his lousy butcheries and his prehistorically out-of-style style, as though there’s competition now between him and Jerome. 

Long story short, the guy’s a pest.

**_“And now, without further ado, Murray Franklin!”_ **

“See, Aaron, what’d I say?” The cannibal scoffs aloud, his tone sneering. “Psychopaths, in general, can’t register kindness or good intentions, nor can they rationalize it for any matter. You better watch your back.”

“If anyone here needs to, it sure as hell won’t be you, Aaron.” The redhead spins around on his heels, dry lips cracking into a sinister grin. “Aw, is someone still salty about losing our little innocent game of Russian Roulette? You know, I  _ did _ pass the gun over to you, old buddy. All you had to do was pull the trigger.”

Aaron shifts uncomfortably in his seat as tension rises amongst them, and Greenwood stands, baring teeth as he mirrors his grin. “Unlike you, I don’t have a death wish, Valeska. Pushing your luck is what you do, and I’m betting on a limb that you’re bound to blow your brains out the next time.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Well then, why delay when we can get this over with now?” Jerome’s lips crack impossibly wider. “ _ Shall we _ ?”

Stepping in, Aaron quickly grabs hold of his friend’s arm before forcing him back down onto the couch, his grip strong and unrelenting. “He didn’t mean anything by it, Jerome.” The cowardice people-muncher struggles to escape but, lucky for him, to no avail. “Right, Robert?”

“The hell I didn’t,” Greenwood hisses at the both of them but freezes immediately just seconds later. 

And so does everyone else.

**_“... aftermath. Alright, folks, for our first guest, you may have heard on the news of the deranged psychopathic murderer running loose in our city. Don’t worry, he’s not going to be on our show tonight. Hell, even I wouldn’t want him here. On top of that...”_ **

Both Aaron and Greenwood gulp at the television as, step by step, Jerome slowly stalks towards the couch that separates him from the screen, intrigued, and mildly confused. 

**_“...as a ticking time bomb. However, it has come to my attention that he’s got a twin brother who happens to be one of the brightest students in Gotham State University, and quite possibly, in Gotham itself and beyond. That’s right, like any other well thought out twist you’ll find in a soap opera, there ironically involves a twin brother in this one as well.”_ **

Discreetly, Aaron reaches for the remote control, intending to hand it over to Jerome for his own perusal, but in a flash, Greenwood snatches it from him. “I vote for a change of entertainment,” he rudely announces, punching some buttons in before a display of a dark hovering cloaked entity substitutes the talk show on the screen, and Jerome’s frown deepens as he’s forced to watch some supernatural being terrorize a spectacled teenager in an unilluminated cabin of a train, followed by some random dishevelled man then bolting upright to shoot a blinding light at the creature and the scene blacks out as a woman’s scream reverberates through the speakers. 

Annoyed out of this world, Jerome forcefully grips into the other’s shoulder, crushing his clavicle and rendering Greenwood helpless as he winces in pain. 

“Switch it back or I’ll chop off your stubby little fingers and shove them down your fucking throat while you scream,” Jerome threatens dangerously, and Greenwood submits, reluctantly.

**_“Anyhow, let us welcome our special guest for tonight’s show, Jeremiah Valeska.”_ **

The applause rings mediocrity, the welcoming curtains pull apart, and his brother seems just as uncomfortable as Jerome expects him to be on live TV. 

What the hell is he doing there anyway?

**_“Thank you for agreeing to come, Jeremiah.”_ **

**_“Thank you for having me.”_ **

**_“How are you feeling tonight? You seem a little on edge there, pal.”_ **

Jeremiah visibly swallows.  **_“Is it that obvious?”_ **

A faint laughter sounds from the audience.

**_“Nah, not really. Keep at it, you’re doing great.”_ **

The hint of sarcasm elicits a louder one, and Jerome watches the discomfort grow in his brother’s posture.

**_“I must say, and I hope you don’t mind, Jeremiah, the two of you are indistinguishable. I mean, honestly, without the tie and glasses, I might just have to double-check with my team to see if they’ve brought in the right person.”_ **

**_“I understand the concern. Though we may look the same, I-I can assure you that our tendencies are far from similar, Murray. We are two entirely d-different personalities.”_ **

**_“You’re stuttering a bit there. Are you nervous?”_ **

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Greenwood, as rude as he’s always been, interrupts by grunting out in pain and Jerome shushes him abruptly, following suit as Aaron releases his death grip.

**_“So, tell me what it is that you do, Jeremiah.”_ **

**_“I’m… I… I study Engineering at Gotham State University.”_ **

Murray makes a face at the audience.  **_“That’s it? Well, tell us something we don’t know.”_ ** Another round of laughter sounds and Jeremiah looks as though he’d cower under the table if he could.  **_“Aren’t you some kind of an inventor as well? That generator we saw on the news. Gotta say, that was pretty impressive stuff. Why don’t you tell us more about it?”_ **

**_“Well, it’s a compact electrical engine that generates power without the… the need for wires and cables, harvesting energy from micro tremors and air density shifts. It’s the… It’s our next step in clean energy advancement, if I dare say so myself.”_ **

The audience murmurs, and Jeremiah shifts in his seat, fidgeting with his fingers as Jerome’s always seen him doing.

**_“And why did you create this generator?”_ **

**_“To… To see if I could. The idea of building a self-perpetuating generator was, at the time, extremely intriguing but not without incertitude. Initially, I didn’t know where to begin, materializing blueprints that may or may not have worked out, but I knew of the good that would derive if it does. This idea then gradually morphed into becoming one of the most ambitious projects that I’ve ever partook.”_ **

**_“So, it was an experiment?”_ **

**_“You could say that it had started of as one, yes.”_ **

It was, Jerome recalls. 

In retrospect, the credit of moulding Jeremiah’s invention belongs partially to Jerome as well. 

His brother had needed the distraction. Being fairly new to living life without prescriptions, he’d always needed one if not a few to keep him on track. Granted, Jerome’s merely given a few words of encouragement to kickstart Jeremiah into building mode, but he did cater to his needs whenever he could.

**_“As I know, your self-perpetuating generator has garnered a lot of interest both in and out of Gotham City, particularly from renowned companies diversifying into the clean energy industry. How has this machine - you know, your invention - changed your life for the better?”_ **

**_“It was a remarkable surprise, to say the least. I’ve received inquiries from reputable organizations regarding the adoption of my generator as one of their products, and so on, and a few of them going as far as to offering me a chance of employment after graduation. I’m more than grateful for how it’s affected my life.”_ **

**_“And how much has changed since your brother’s fiasco blew up in the news, Jeremiah?”_ **

The unexpected question piques his interest, and Jerome’s attention doubles as the camera now pans towards his twin brother’s face.

**_“A… A lot has changed, Murray.”_ **

**_“An example?”_ **

**_“People look at me differently. I assume that it’s because we’re identical.”_ **

**_“In your opinion, do you think that that’s the only reason for them to react in this particular way?”_ **

**_“I do.”_ **

**_“Why?”_ **

**_“For one, people tend to judge a book by its cover, irregardless of whether they intend to or not. It’s… It’s basic instinct. All my life, those who knew of my twin brother’s existence have associated me with having the same problematic behaviors, only to realize down the road that I am nothing like him. That our ‘interests’ do not intersect. That, unlike my brother, I am normal.”_ **

What’s that supposed to mean?

**_“What do you mean by that, Jeremiah? What is normal to you?”_ **

“Are you sure you want to keep watching?” Aaron brings up the question, to which Jerome replies with jarring silence, eyes fixated attentively on the television, balled fists forming.

**_“It’s alright, young man. Let it out. What’s the difference between you and Jerome Valeska?”_ **

**_“The… The difference… The-”_ **

“I’m starting to feel like we’re not supposed to be here,” Greenwood remarks out of nowhere, and after receiving an angry snarl of ‘ _ Shut up! _ ’ from Jerome, the dejected man sinks further into the couch, grumbling.

**_“The most prominent difference between us, M-Murray, is that he’s insane and I am not.”_ **

The audience murmurs, and Jerome begins to grit his teeth.

Painfully.

**_“He revels in the… the suffering of others. I do not. He derives enjoyment from the sight of blood and the harrowing screams of his victims. I do not. He threatens, blackmails, and even murders those who stand in his way. I most certainly do not. S-See, you don’t know what it’s like. Y-You won’t understand the fear that I live with, day by day, trapped under the same roof as this… this monster.”_ **

His clenched jaw starts to hurt.

**_“What’s he done to you?”_ **

**_“Horrible things. I-I’ve tried telling my mother but she’d never listened to me.”_ **

**_“What did he do, Jeremiah?”_ **

**_“He… He’d always been unstable, and remorseless, even as a child. Deluged with murderous intent. On my tenth birthday, he held a cake knife to my throat. A few weeks later, he lit my bed on fire. It was like living in a nightmare.”_ **

An ear-piercing clang of metal crashing against marble startles both Aaron and Greenwood, launching them away from the furniture right after the furious twin hurls the nearest object in his reach out of pure blind rage. Immediately, the two scurry out of the way, giving Jerome as much space as he possibly needs, and the Valeska leans forward towards the screen almost menacingly, knuckles whitening as he grips onto the headrest of the couch in front of him.

Lies.

Those were all fucking lies.

He’d never do anything like that to Jeremiah. 

Why would he?

**_“He blames me for everything that’s gone wrong in his life, but the truth is…”_ **

Why is Jeremiah doing this to him?

**_“Jerome is…”_ **

He can’t come up with a good enough reason other than the one that’s unfortunately lurking in the back of his mind.

**_“He was born bad.”_ **

And that’s it.

Something, without the shadow of a doubt, snaps inside Jerome.

Born bad, huh? 

Born bad, the taciturn twin says.

He wants to laugh, desperately, but Jerome couldn’t find himself to. 

**_“To you, my brother is a cold-blooded murderer incapable of repentance and redemption. To me, it’s the same as well.”_ **

As if on cue, a group of eight goons march into the living room, minding their own businesses as they always do, and without sparing another thought, Jerome strides up to them, closing in on the one walking ahead of the others to shove his switchblade into his piddling gut. Shell-shocked, the group disperses, stumbling backwards in horror as Jerome forces their friend into a suffocating headlock, driving the knife into his stomach over and over again with no mercy. 

Remorseless, didn’t he say? 

Afraid as they may be, a few try to help, but Greenwood coldly calls out to them to stand down. 

“Stay the fuck back if you know what’s good for you.” 

A question arises at this very moment, begging to be answered. 

Why would Jeremiah do such a thing? 

Lying through his teeth. On national television, no less. 

Making him the monster of his life’s diegesis. Now,  _ that _ was uncalled for. And, out of the rebarbative absurdity of it all, a fucking cake knife, really? He could’ve done so much better than to weaponize a plastic piece of crap. In all honesty, that’s actually quite insulting, considering the laudable acts of Jerome’s prior performances when they were indeed at the irreproachable age of ten. Oh, and of course, how could anyone forget Jeremiah’s equally grotesque works of art? Well, just Jerome anyway, seeing that he had only unmasked when there were no other witnesses in proximity. See, unlike his brother, Jerome’s an open book, because much simpler is life when there are no secrets to hide, and abstinence is a far away land.

_ “He threatens, blackmails, and even murders those who stand in his way. I most certainly do not.” _

Jeremiah most certainly does, and Jerome knows it better than anyone.

How convenient, is it not? 

To throw Jerome under the bus in such ways for his own benefit is a pretty low blow, but come to think of it, the maladroit execution, the lack of obvious flair, the motivation behind it, none of which seems likely to have manifested itself in that orthodox brain of his twin’s, which leads him to draw the simplest conclusion from the clusterfuck that’s happening live on television right now.

Jerome sees it as clear as day.

This has Bruce Wayne written all over it. 

His tremoring hand, now saturated red, twists the unforgiving blade, dragging across punctured skin and torn flesh, cutting open, and a scream of agony pierces through his ears.

After  _ everything  _ that he’s done for him.

After all of the sacrifices he’s made.

This is what he gets?

“Jerome, that’s enough.”

Does Jeremiah, in actuality, hate his guts so,  _ so  _ fucking much that he’d run off and disappear as soon as he’s found someone else to latch onto?

“Put him down,” the same authoritative voice commands again.

Was it so pathetically easy for him,  _ Miah _ , to forget his dear older brother, Jay, so soon?

“I won’t repeat myself, Jerome. Stop this now before you make a mess.”

Apparently, it was.

Releasing the struggling thug from his headlock, Jerome glacially grasps a handful of raven-black hair, unsurprisingly similar to one millionaire brat’s, before running the sharp blade across his exposed throat. A shocked murmur. Blood splatters over marble as the body falls lifelessly onto the ground. It didn’t make him feel any better at all. A gurgling sound of protest. A vexing groan of disgust. A string of words uttered by Jeremiah from the television that, strangely enough, fails to properly register inside his head. He’s asked to turn around, and when Jerome blatantly refuses to, Theo Galavan simply mutters to him, nonchalantly, of four meticulous words, but not ones that he hasn’t heard before.

“I told you so.”

 

~~~~

 

A soft clink against aluminium, and his assistant, John Doe, sighs dramatically with defeat.

“Patience is a virtue, dear friend.”

Two days following his appearance on Live With Murray Franklin, Jeremiah finds himself buried in work in his laboratory at Gotham State University. A faulty generator, twenty-six hours before his presentation at the city’s annual Tech Expo. Having wrapped up their production of his electrical engine - the second edition - in time, subjecting the generator to its necessary trials and whatnot, all had been going expectantly well. Not a single hitch obstructing its refined performance, despite preparations were at the ready to counter any that would surface. It’s most certainly puzzling, to say the least. As the two attempt to figure out whatever issues that may be hidden, a commercial plays on the television attached to the wall across the room, and Jeremiah darts his eyes towards it at the familiar sound of Murray’s voice. Much to his relief, it’s nothing but a random ad, not the one that features him, and thank God for that.

Jeremiah couldn’t bear the reminder of it.

He couldn’t bear watching it again. 

In recollection, he remembers heading backstage once the interview was over with, leaving shortly after with Bruce who’d planted a chaste kiss upon his chapped lips as they exchanged ‘good night’s in a parked vehicle by the sidewalk, before making his way upstairs towards his apartment, alone, to swing open a wooden door into his empty home. 

And, through it all, Jeremiah had never felt more dreadful.

He understands the necessities in rectifying his situation, the one that Jerome had so irresponsibly propelled him into. Bruce had helped him see that. His brother had, undeniably, left him without much of a choice. There is no other way. Yet, Jeremiah can’t help but feel awful about the things that he has to do to protect himself at the expense of Jerome’s already tarnished name, which Bruce had once told him that he shouldn’t at all feel guilty about it, that Jerome had brought this unto himself in the first place, that Jeremiah doesn’t deserve to be dragged into his brother’s mess just because he feels as if he’s indebted to him.

“You did the right thing,” Bruce had said.

But come to think of it, did he really?

“I don’t get it.” John’s venting snaps him out of his train of thought, and Jeremiah looks away from the television, biting the inside of his cheek as he carries on unscrewing one of the many bolts holding the machine together. “What went wrong?”

“It could’ve been one of the circuits in the wiring,” Jeremiah suggests, “Keep searching.”

 

~~~~

 

Two days.

Jerome has been sulking for two full days.

He hates admitting it, but judging by the way the wind is blowing, it seems that - and he really, really,  _ really _ hates conceding this - his filthy whore of a mother was right. “Never trust anyone,” he’d once overheard her in conversation, “Not even family.” The other party in said conversation was his brother. Oh, the hilarity that Jerome had found in  _ that  _ situation. Alas, how foolish of him to believe that Jeremiah wouldn’t have let her poisonous words contaminate his growing brain. How foolish, indeed. And the more he thinks about it, the more infuriated he becomes. Sighing out of irritation, Jerome sinks lower into the red seat, plopping his feet onto the dashboard of a rather cramped cabin of an oil tanker truck despite Greenwood’s feeble protests. He should’ve known. Should’ve seen it coming. It was his mistake, all his to place his full trust in Jeremiah, thinking that he’d do the same in return, unconditionally. Jerome clears his throat to hold back a chuckle.

That’s life, ain’t it? 

It’s never not unfair.

Harbored underneath a bridge, a red truck with an oil tank pumped full of fuel awaits. A change of plan, and a change of location. Initially, the elderlies seemed like a good enough quarry, but ultimately, there’s just something berefting about murdering a bunch of old folks who can barely walk, with or without cane. So, Jerome figured that if the Maniax are going to give Gotham City a show, then it ought to be a damn good fucking show, and these senior citizens, unfortunately, are just not cut out for maximizing views.

Feet on the dashboard, Jerome childishly forms a pair of binoculars with his hands, scouring the area for their incoming game. 

“I spy with my little eye something that is…” 

And there it is, just in time. 

A school bus full of kids. 

“Yellow.” 

As the truck’s engine roars to life, Jerome leaps into position, instructing Aaron to move onward before glancing at the side mirror to make sure that their other member, Dobkins - who Jerome rarely pays attention to on the regular - is onboard the truck as they leave. The plan is simple.  _ Uno _ , follow the bus. Obviously.  _ Dos _ , cut them off at the checkpoint. That’ll be a piece of cake.  _ Tres _ , douse the oil and commit arson, or in much simpler words, burn the teens. This ought to be an effective diversion. For the boss, anyways. See, the others, including one Robert Greenwood, have been messing around to throw those brain-dead cops off Galavan’s scent and, thus, solidifying his innocence, all while pinning everything else on Jerome instead. The murders, the drugs. Granted, their little made-up boyband, the Maniax, was supposed to be the frontrunner of their show, but given that Jerome’s name had garnered so much more popularity recently, Galavan’s decided to make him his leading actor to pave their way however necessary.

Not that Jerome minds it that much, so to speak. 

It just means that he gets to have more fun.

Intersecting the school bus at checkpoint, Aaron climbs out of the truck first, preparing and connecting the hose to the fuel tank as Jerome skips his way giddily towards the locked door of the stranded vehicle, knocking the magazine of his gun trice against glass at the driver shaking visibly with fear. As the panel slides open, both Greenwood and Dobkins step in, handcuffs galore. “I want you all to know that this was a very difficult decision for us,” Jerome announces later to the weeping students in their adorable little cheerleader outfits as he walks around, casually surveying his colleagues’ handiwork, “It was between you and a senior citizen bingo party. In the end, we decided to skew a little younger. Youth won the day. Sorry.” 

“Please,” a few of them beg with tear-stained eyes.

Mimicking some degree of enthusiasm, Jerome channels his inner cheerleading spirit as he jumps into a stance, mocking the crying students. 

“Give me an O!” 

Well, the lack of response is definitely irritating. Gosh, teenagers nowadays. All they do is moan, whine, beg and cry. Lips pressing into a thin line, Jerome pulls the trigger, blasting through the roof of the bus and the petty bunch of killjoys scream together in terror. 

“I said give me an O,” he orders, sternly. 

“O…”

“Give me an N,” Jerome encourages, his mock-up enthusiasm returning.

“N…”

“Give me another O!”

“O…”

“What does that spell?  _ Ohhhh, no _ .”

Hose in hand, pulling the valve backwards, Jerome douses the handcuffed students with oil.

 

~~~~

 

A familiar alert breaks their silence in the laboratory, distracting both John and Jeremiah from work as they dart their eyes toward the television across the room. 

A newscaster sits, her eyes clouded with apprehension.

**_“Breaking news: We have received an anonymous tip on the whereabouts of Gotham’s most wanted criminal, Jerome Valeska, and it’s been confirmed by our on-site reporters that a commotion seems to be happening involving an oil tanker belonging to the Hest Oil Company, and a school bus full of students.”_ **

Overridden by shock, Jeremiah’s jaw drops, as though dislodged. 

Hesitantly, the twin steps forward, stopping a few feet before the display of a helicopter-view footage of Jerome - dressed in all white with black straps along his torso - dropping, from his hand, the hose that’s connected to the fuel tank as he playfully approaches the drenched yellow school bus.

 

~~~~

 

“Ready? Okay!”

The saccharine screams of the, well, not-so-innocent, innocent teenagers surge into his ears as Jerome bends forward, striking the sparkwheel of his lighter a couple of times, and the bus begins to waggle from the exacerbating struggles of its unruly passengers. Much to his disappointment, the lighter’s busted. 

“So embarrassing,” Jerome mutters, pressing his lips into a thin line as he steps back into the bus, casually yelling out at the screaming kids, “Anyone got a light?” 

Once again, the lack of response is  _ unbelievable _ . Sheesh. Apart from wailing for their mommies, these students are no help at all. As Jerome scans down the dampened isle across sobbing faces, breathing in, at the same time, the heavenly pungent smell of fuel, his grin grows sinister. Broken down to their last shreds of hope, some have begun to pray, as if  _ that _ will miraculously change the course of the inevitable. It’s almost time, isn’t it? As Dobkins exclaims that he’s got a lighter, Jerome retreats with one last look around the bus, holding back a snicker. Indubitably, Jerome absolutely  _ loves  _ goading his victims, taunting and chaffing them moments prior to snuffing them out. Cruelty? What even is that? Also, who’s to stop him, anyways? Jerome can do whatever he wants. He’s got the upper hand. He  _ owns  _ these high schoolers, and once he’s done screwing with their little know-it-all heads, he’ll set them ablaze, roasting each and every one of their youthful faces just like the way he likes his s’mores. Charred, gooey, and melts in the mouth.

Because why the hell not?

After all, what was it that the ungrateful little backstabber had said again?

Born bad, right?

Sirens blare in the distance, growing louder and louder as each second passed, signifying, finally, the arrival of their expected guests. As one patrol car after another rush into the vicinity, the students’ cries become deafeningly sweet, and not at all unsavory. 

“Stand your ground, boys,” Jerome raises his gun, grinning as he spots a familiar detective climbing out of one of the vehicles, “They can’t shoot at the bus.” 

Sure enough, gunfire ensues from their side as Gordon orders his men down, taking into consideration the consequences that could befall those trapped in the bus if triggered by hostility, and the cops, being obedient as ever, remain in cover as Jerome and his gang spray them relentlessly with bullets. Of course, it’s all fun and games until those bullets eventually run out, judging by the fact that they didn’t exactly pack enough ammunition necessary for a prolonged shootout. The plan was supposed to be touch-and-go, and as much as he’d like to gun down those blue bloods one by one, Jerome sets a stern reminder that the show must still go on, and delays are in fact intolerable. 

“Aaron, Greenwood, get the truck started,” the redhead instructs, “We’re going to blow this barbeque.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jerome spots the detective running into view towards the parked car upfront, and he spins around before opening fire at the head peeking up from the back of the sedan. He misses the shot, obviously, but Jerome’s played this game of Whac-A-Mole before, and he tries his luck again, eagerly shooting at Gordon’s head that’s peeking over the vehicle, missing both times. Well, in retrospect, Jerome’s never said that he was good at the game. He pulls the trigger once more, and at the sound of an unexpected click that clearly informs i-am-all-out-of-ammo, Jerome concludes that they’re definitely bringing a friggin arsenal next time to  _ not _ spoil the fun. Discarding the gun carelessly, Jerome, with an outright indifferent look on his face, lets it fall out of his hand - seeing that the thing is practically useless, anyways - and orders for his men to proceed with their most anticipated big act. 

“Light ‘em up!” Jerome calls out.

As Dobkins settles into position, Jerome retreats to the truck, grabbing the hose to douse the school bus even more with fuel before climbing onboard, all while Greenwood holds off the cops with the hospitality of his shotgun. But, wait a minute, where’s the fire? Where’s the glorious explosion of flames? The GCPD is beginning to push forward, shooting at Greenwood to keep him occupied as they pave their way towards the bus, and Dobkins is, apparently, still struggling with his lighter. Jerome rolls his eyes, jumping off the oil tanker to skip to his side, crouching with a frown on his face. “Seriously, how hard can it be?” Snatching the lighter from Dobkins’ hand to roll the sparkwheel down into the ignition button, his eyes light up at the flame that forms, and without another moment of hesitation, Jerome tosses the lighter into the oil-soaked bus. 

Even at the gentlest caress of flame against fuel, hot scorching fire immediately engulfs the interior of the vehicle as well as the screaming teenagers trapped inside of it, burning furiously, and an ear-piercing laughter rips from Jerome’s throat as he hops back onto the truck, escaping unscathed, marking the conclusion of a successful execution.

It takes a moment for the harrowing end-result to sink in before Detective Harvey Bullock finally orders a few of their men to pursue the oil tanker truck that had already gotten away. 

Anguished shrieks erupt from the burning school bus, and frantic bystanders, be it the police, reporters or pedestrians alike, hurtle towards the mortifying scene, attempting to put out the raging fire together. And there stands Detective Gordon, frozen, watching in complete horror as some desperate students violently bang their heads against scalding glass windows to attempt escape, while some flail helplessly in excruciating pain as their skin and flesh gradually melt away. “N-No...” His voice catches in his dry throat as the enormous blaze continues to grow without firefighters on site, and with the sudden dawn of realization, his heavy heart plunges into the pit of his twisting stomach. There is nothing that he can do. As fire consumes the school bus along with the kids trapped inside of it, there is absolutely nothing that he can do to stop it. Agonized screams fill his ears. It torments him, and it does to no end. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.

But it is. 

It’s real, and there  _ has  _ to be something that he can do.

There must be.

Gritting his teeth, his legs carry him forward, and ignoring the scorching heat that threatens to devour him alive, James Gordon rushes selflessly to the dying students’ aid and towards the burning bus with his gun in hand.

“JIM, NO!”

Pushing past a number of others, he now stands staggered only a few feet apart from the students in the bus, separated by panels of searing glass. Those noticing his approach scream out of painful despair for his help. They beg, and beg, and beg as they are continually licked by flames and stripped of skin and flesh and hair. One desperately slams her bruised and bleeding forehead repeatedly against her window to get his attention, and Jim promptly raises his gun, puncturing the glass with three bullets before rough arms haul him backwards to drag him away from the bus.

“Nonono, let me go. Get off of me! LET ME GO!”

“GET THE FUCK BACK, JIM!”

“HARVEY, WE NEED TO GET THEM OUT!”

“IT’S TOO DANGEROUS!”

“WE NEED TO GET THEM OUT NOW!!!”

“JIM-”

In a flash, a blinding light occurs.

Both of the detectives are thrown backwards onto shaking ground as the burning bus explodes with a deafening thunder before their very eyes, its monstrous blaze towering, soaring three storeys into the air, and despite having shielded himself with his own arm, Jim’s face still burns with the scorching heat of the sudden combustion.

And just like that, in a matter of seconds, the traumatizing screams of the teenagers still trapped inside the burning school bus are no more.

 

~~~~

 

The laboratory, silenced with appalling horror. 

The newscaster, with hands over her mouth, begins to break down in tears. 

Jeremiah draws a sharp intake of breath, his over-pouring anxiety skyrocketing.

Eyes fixated on the ongoing live footage, he stands frozen in place, petrified, rattled and utterly dismayed. 

“Dear God, Jerome, what have you done......”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was hard to write.
> 
> Hello again, and welcome back to another chapter! 
> 
> It's a pretty long one, and I hope you liked the bit where it correlates with Jerome's setting-the-bus-on-fire scene in season 2. It was pretty fun re-watching the scene just so I could get the details right in writing, but yeah, then it turned into something ugly after the bus does get set on fire. I do apologize if it's too upsetting or dark for some readers.
> 
> Still, as always, thank you so much for continuing to stick around with each new update. I truly, truly, truly appreciate you spending time to read this and giving kudos as well as commenting. Honestly, receiving your feedback is strangely enough to make any terrible day better. 
> 
> Oh, and it's already nearing the end of January, holy shit, can you believe it? I hope you guys have had a good month.
> 
> Anyways, as always, thanks again, have a great day and also, I certainly hope you guys have a good February! :D


	22. Chapter 22

His blood runs cold.

Palms shielding an agaped mouth, elbows against buckling knees, Bruce hunches over the edge of his seat in an empty living room, tormented and distressed, as sirens reverberate loudly through the television speakers. An ongoing live footage. A flash of red and blue. A charred metal cage of what had once constructed a bright yellow school bus rests - stranded, incinerated, and ruined - at the center of a dissipated commotion, surrounded by uniforms and presumably, distraught families who have, at last, arrived at the grievous scene.

Bruce bites down at his lower lip, harshly, forcing down an overpowering wave of emotion as he watches each of them break down out of pure unbridled despair by the remnants and ashes of whom they had come to see. He tells himself that it isn’t his fault, that it has nothing to do with the fact that he’d forced Jeremiah’s reluctant hand to oust his villainous brother, that an attack such as this results from careful and deliberate planning which would’ve required weeks to prepare.

But he can’t seem to convince his own conscience.

The ongoing live footage brings his attention to a tear-stricken mother kneeling on the ground, screaming in anguish at the top of her lungs as her remaining family member, an adolescent, clutches tightly at her sleeve, sobbing uncontrollably.

This isn’t his fault.

 

~~~~

******  
**

_ “You shouldn’t be here. The cops are looking for you all over the city.” _

She’d said.

_ “As you can probably tell, I don’t have anyone else.”  _

Jerome’s words echo from her memory, striking upon her heavy heart an unmistakable pang of guilt. Succumbing to anger, her behavior had been rashed, impulsive, wanting nothing more than to hurt Jerome for as much as he’d hurt her with his despicable lies and abhorrent deceit.  _ “It’s all true, isn’t it? That’s what you really do for money.”  _ At the same time, she was overridden by fear. Confused and lost, all of a sudden, she didn’t know if she could trust him, but somehow, seeing Jerome step back numerous times during their conversation in that back alley, respecting her boundaries still, Ecco knew that he wouldn’t have hurt her physically. 

Yet.

Jerome had wanted her to look after Jeremiah in his absence, and when she’d blatantly refused, her old friend was persistent.

_ “I’m admitting that I, alone, fucked everything up.”  _ Jerome had spilled.  _ “Whatever good that the three of us had, it’s all gone because of me and I’m sorry, but please, don’t take it out on him. If anything, he’s a victim as much as you are in this clusterfuck of a mess. You know that I hate getting on my knees, begging, but I will if that’s what it’ll take for you to reconsider. He’s helpless on his own. You know that.” _

And for just a moment, her fear subsided.

Ecco knew then of what she had to do.

_ “On one condition, and that is from this day onwards, you’ll stay away from me.” _

She’d demanded.

_ “From the both of us.” _

An uncalculated decision.

Cutting Jerome out of her life, as it turns out, was far from easy. While the daily news repetitively reports updates of Gotham’s most wanted fugitive, topped with the countless unavoidable run-ins with his execrable posters plastered all over the city, both serve as a constant reminder, much to her surprise, not of his atrocious side, but rather, the good. Surely, there’s something wrong with her, Ecco had thought. Jerome’s charges, as read aloud on the news, were terrifying. Appalling. The implied was absolutely downright disturbing. Though, days passed, and given the time to think things through, Ecco had arrived at her own conclusion that Jerome was, without the shadow of a doubt, coerced. He was one of her closest friends. Her safe place. She’d trusted him. Apart from Jeremiah, Jerome knew more about her than anyone else had ever bothered to. He wouldn’t have harmed her in any way. Never, during their contacts in the past couple of years, had she felt threatened in his presence, or by his actions which could, admittedly, be at times unpredictable. A limit existed, and Jerome had always been careful not to overstep. 

He wouldn’t have committed all of those atrocities on his own accord.

Ecco refuses to believe so. 

Reasons to endorse her supposition were plenty, but now, the pool diminishes.

Withdrawing from a wooden window sill, Ecco retreats, shocked, stumbling suddenly as she collides into a nearby desk, feet stamping on half-written sheets of paper and study materials. Panic-stricken dialogues in the living room fall on deaf ears as her mind races, and without another word, Ecco bends forward to retrieve some detached sections of her course’s assignment, bolting through the main door of her classmate’s rented accommodation with her bag strapped to a rigid shoulder and her stack of papers secured safely against folded arms. 

That wasn’t Jerome.

It… It couldn’t be.

As though still ringing in her ears, despite the distinguished blaze, Ecco tries her damned hardest to block out the agonizing screams of those burnt along with the bus.

Again and again, she tries, but in vain.

The truth lays bare for all to see.

Those students didn’t deserve what Jerome had done to them. 

Their families didn’t deserve the damage that Jerome had irreversibly branded into their household.

Of what he had destroyed, and so inhumanely torn away.

But, still, Ecco has to insist that  _ no _ … no, Jerome  _ was _ coerced into his actions, for he wouldn’t have set the bus on fire on his own selfish accord. 

As the elevator doors part, one step after another, her legs carry her forward into a dreary lobby where tenants of the old building gathered by dusty windows, each drawn towards the state of tumult outside. Somehow, the thought of staying a minute longer elicits an eldritch wave of claustrophobia, and Ecco picks up pace, hurrying towards the main exit, stopping only when the doors swing open which allows a suffocating whiff of smoke and ash to breach the packed lobby. Its stench, overbearing. Hand shielding her mouth and nose, Ecco attempts to make her way across the crowded lot, head lowered, but something catches her eye from afar and her attention shifts to a disheartening sight of uniforms at work, recovering charred corpses out of the burnt skeleton of what once was a bright yellow school bus.

Her gut twists.

Jerome couldn’t have done this.

He could never.

Out of nowhere, a black polished sedan swerves into the lot, and reporters begin scurrying pass and around her, the immovable hindrance, swarming the mayor-to-be as he swiftly climbs out of the vehicle. 

Behind him, Edward Nygma follows. 

“I came as soon as I can,” Oswald addresses, “Without question, countering an issue of this severity is at the utmost top of my list of priorities in efforts to keep Gotham safe, and I am here today to hold an immediate meeting with our authorities and law enforcers in order to understand, and implement, what needs to be done for the benefit of our people, especially the future generations who will, in good time, inherit our beloved city. But, of course, our main focus for the time being lies first on providing for the families left devastated by the fiendish acts of one cruel and insignificant arsonist and terrorist.”

“Very well said, Oswald.”

Camera lights flash. 

“Couldn’t have relayed it better myself,” Theo Galavan adds, emerging through the dividing crowd with an all too friendly smile plastered on his face. Reciprocating, Oswald forcefully reaches forward to initiate a simple handshake, to which the other plays along expertly, grabbing ahold of his hand before giving it a non-threatening squeeze. 

“I’m awfully surprised to see you here, Theo. Given your, well, situation, I thought that you’d be far too busy to find time.”

“Why, that’s ludicrous.” The other scoffs lightly. “The accusations under my name are nothing but a minor nuisance, Oswald. I could never abandon my responsibilities for something so trivial.”

“Spoken like a faithful nobleman,” Oswald’s smile falters ever so slightly as he lets his hand fall to his side, “Be that as it may, I  _ am _ genuinely concerned of the fact that your presence, due to the nature of your accusations, would cause more upset than comfort, my friend.”

Camera lights flash once again.

“I can’t help what others think of me,” says Galavan as he glances around at the reporters surrounding them, “Unfortunately, that’s something that neither I nor anyone else can control, but what I  _ can  _ are my actions as well as my contributions to and for the people of Gotham City. I will not be cornered by fear and zealous defamation by accusers. I am innocent, and the law will prove it, be it sooner or later.”

So, it’s true.

Jerome  _ was  _ coerced into setting the bus ablaze.

Gritting her teeth, Ecco whirls around in anger and leaves. **  
**

 

~~~~

******  
**

“Bruce?”

The name doesn’t register, and neither does the concern in his mother’s voice.

“Bruce, dear?”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred calls out this time, and the sudden tap against his shoulder derails his perennial train of thought, diverting his attention to the older guardian, and Bruce realizes then of the persisting weight of empty porcelain plates still burdening his hands. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Bruce lies as he steps away from the cabinets, arranging said plates along the dining table without another word. His shoulders, slumped. The delectable aroma of home cooked stew ought to have, at the very least, made his stomach growl, given that he’d barely eaten since morning, but it seems that the boy has completely lost his appetite for the remaining day, though not without reason. A few hours ago, the students who were ambuscaded whilst enroute to a cheerleading competition held in faraway Metropolis, and who had, unfortunately, perished alongside an ignited bus have been identified, their faces broadcasted to the entire city. During which, a moment of silence was called for, and Bruce had unceremoniously left for his room then. 

He’d seen what he’d needed to see. 

The innocent profiles of whom Jerome had so callously murdered. 

“Forgive me for being resolute, but you don’t seem as though you are,” Alfred remarks, to which the boy immediately responds, resembling much like his father, with stern, inarguable authority.

“But I am,” Bruce insists, addressing his perturbed mother next as he attempts to bring the barren conversation to its end, articulating, “Like I said before, I’m  _ fine _ . Why wouldn’t I be?” His chest, puffed. More than anything, Bruce just wants to be left alone. At least, for the time being until things sort themselves out. 

His mother, thankfully, nods with understanding. 

“Very well,” Martha represses a deep sigh, shrugging as though she, too, is burdened by an invisible yet crushing weight, “I’ll take your word for it. But, do know that you can always come to either of us if you ever need to get something off your chest.” Warmth spreads across her face, albeit her lovely smile doesn’t quite reach her worried eyes. “Now, could you be so kind as to fetch your father for dinner, Bruce?”

In response, the boy nods, wordlessly.

Planting weary feet outside the study, Bruce knocks twice against polished mahogany, pushing the door open at the faintest sound of his father’s voice. There, he relays dear mother’s message, preparing to leave as soon as done when his name is uttered a second time, prompting the boy to raise downcasted eyes. “Come,” Thomas beckons him towards the exquisite set of Victorian couches, all arranged in favor of facing the window exposing an open field beneath Gotham’s twilight sky, “Sit with me for a moment, son.” 

A confounding situation, and an occasion so rare. Obfuscated, Bruce does as he’s told still, settling not uncomfortably opposite his father. Hands, clasped.

“How are you doing lately, Bruce?”

His frown deepens, and the boy replies matter-of-factly, “I’m well.” He doesn’t know what to make of his father’s expression exhibited in response to his answer.

“Is that so?” Thomas offers a comforting smile. “Believability is rather frangible, judging especially by the fact that the way you look, at the moment, is telling me otherwise.”

A twitch of muscle, and Bruce’s lips press into a thin line. All of a sudden, his shoulders grow heavy, as though a substantial weight had latched itself unto him, gnawing at his very being. Tiredness. Fatigue. Biting at the inside of his cheek, Bruce falls silent, slouching unknowingly as his attention drifts elsewhere. 

“Is there anything that you’d wish to share with me?” He’d rather not. “That, perhaps, I should know of, but don’t?”

Gritting his teeth, Bruce mulishly shakes his head.

“See, that’s hardly convincing.” A prolonged pause fills their conversation, yet the boy maintains his silence, adamantly refusing to budge. “You know, your mother’s right about a lot of things, and one of them is, without question, her acute observation of stubbornness that apparently runs in both our veins.” A strained laugh rings in his ears, to which he attempts to ignore, but finds out the hard way that he couldn’t. “Well, now I know how she feels.”

Bruce hates this.

He absolutely does.

Nothing’s gone according to plan,  _ absolutely  _ nothing, and Bruce could feel control slipping from his fingertips as the weight of today crushes him. He’d never meant to escalate the situation, having underestimated just how volatile that lunatic can be, and for that, Bruce couldn’t help but take full responsibility for the suffering inflicted upon the defenseless Jerome had trapped in the bus. He’d never meant to cause any harm, and the fact that he  _ had _ , no matter the degree, is extremely infuriating, and frustratingly so, given that his best of intentions were only to help out a friend. And at that moment, his train of thought halts, metal scratching against metal, screeching deafeningly as Bruce is confronted with another dilemma. 

Irregardless of what anyone else says, Jeremiah Valeska does mean a lot to him. Too much, in fact, that it’s sometimes frightening. The lengths that Bruce had gone for someone he’d met only recently, in comparison to that of his closest friend of legitimately  _ years _ as well as one who’s also considered family, is unfathomable. That, perhaps, explains her anger. In retrospect, Bruce did try to ‘keep his feelings in check’, abiding by her cautions - which he still does, unintentionally - and implacable guilt still eats at him each and every time he helplessly falls further. Not once had it failed to remind him of his rudimentary objectives for fraternizing with the Valeska twin in the first place, at which point,  _ that  _ was the priority. But, things have changed. The plan concocted had born no fruit, solely because Jeremiah plays no significant role in his brother’s malfeasances. Rectifications had to be made, along with its redirection. 

Yet, why couldn’t Selina see things the same way as he does?

“Bruce, are you alright?”

_ “The plan remains as my priority, Selina. However, circumstances have proven that Jeremiah Valeska is not who we should be investigating.” _

_ “That’s bullshit. How can you be so naive?” _

_ “I’m being fair.” _

_ “You’re too distracted to see that he’s playing you like a fiddle, Bruce.” _

No matter the rationalizations, Selina Kyle simply refuses to believe that Jeremiah is in fact innocent. 

“Bruce?”

Absentmindedly, the boy turns as he’s called.

“You know you can tell me anything.”

That’s true.

He could.

He really could.

But, not everything.

Not…  _ everything _ .

Especially not about Jeremiah, and nothing beyond the perimeters of their friendship.

He couldn’t afford to.

Having discovered the bruises and marks on his neck that Bruce had thought he’d successfully conceal, Selina had immediately confronted him, validating her suspicions as to whom they’d belonged to, and Bruce hasn’t heard from her since. At least, not until today, when his phone had received the unexpected contact as the fifteenth image on the news transitioned into view, featuring another demised student at a mirthful family gathering and a handwritten message to which Bruce had refused to read, shifting his attention instead to Selina’s, wishing that something good would derive from it.  **I hope you’re happy** , hers had merely said, and Bruce remembers responding with an exceedingly exhausted sigh. Selina’s anger is, understandably, justified. Her disappointment, immense. After all, she’d done everything he’d asked, didn’t she?

_ “You’re in way over your head.” _

_ “No, I’m not.” _

_ “Yes, you are!” Selina scolded, “Do you even remember why you’re consorting with Jeremiah Valeska in the first place? You had a plan! You told me that you needed information to help your father and Gordon to stop Galavan, but what have you done, Bruce?” _

It’s comical that, even a lengthened span of weeks later, the question still applies. Time and time again, she’d believe in him and, ultimately, he would let her down.

“I’m here if you need to talk, son.”

He could.

“You know that I’ll always be.”

He really could.

But, nothing about Selina, and most certainly, nothing more about Jeremiah. Au fond, nothing that he would, decidedly and undoubtedly, fix on his own. 

So, slowly but surely, he lets his words slip. 

“I think I’m lost...”

His father pauses, briefly. “How so?”

“I’ve meddled with things that I probably shouldn’t have.”

Much to his surprise, the boy hears a sigh. “I know,” his father then mutters.

Flummoxed, Bruce darts his attention upwards, only to be greeted with a slight quirk of a smile, and he freezes like a deer in headlights with realization.

“Did you really think that I wouldn’t?” Thomas asks, seemingly amused, “Knowing you, if you’d actually listened and leave what I’ve asked you to leave well enough alone, I’d honestly be more surprised, Bruce. Though I do have to say, using my name to book a table at Akrivós, out of all places, for Lucius? Let it be known that what I’m conveying is hardly sarcasm, but I’d like to thank you for that. Openings at that restaurant are difficult to come by as it is, and after nearly a dozen attempts, Lucius had called one day to thank  _ me  _ for the ‘kind reservation’. Needless to say, I’ve taken all the credit, so you don’t have to worry about that. Albeit, on the contrary...” And there, the boy gulps. “...gloating to Lucius in public about my unfinalized decision of employing Xander Wilde, or Jeremiah, was a tad bit excessive.”

With that, his hands unclasp. “I apologize, I… I just thought-”

“Still and all,” his father interjects suddenly, leaving the boy to gawk speechlessly as he adds without any prior warning, “You did the right thing.” Bruce’s mouth falls open then and there, to which Thomas continues carrying the conversation, occasionally glancing out the window as he does. “Truth be told, I, myself, believe that he deserves a chance as well, what with being a clear example of the fact that no one can choose family.”

His mouth clamps shut at that. 

Swallowing visibly, Bruce’s hands clasp together once more, eyes darting to the floor as he muses on what had so successfully prompted his father’s rare change of heart and mind.

“You haven’t told me the reason as to why you’re upset, son.”

Bruce tenses. His throat runs dry.

Nothing about Selina. 

Nothing more about Jeremiah.

Nothing that he can surely fix.

“It’s my fault,” Bruce confesses quietly, his breath catching in his throat, suffocating.

“What is?”

“Murray’s.” Painfully, he grits his teeth. “I screwed up... I was so adamant on changing everyone else’s conviction of Jeremiah that I’ve chosen to ignore the inevitable fact that Jerome would, ineluctably, lash out, be it in retaliation or revenge, and in the end, I’ve underestimated the degree that he could. I didn’t do the right thing, Dad... If I did, all of them would still be alive.”

It’s the ugly truth.

His gut tells him that it is.

Silence stretches as his father straightens in his seat as though taken aback, and then he’s shaking his head. “It’s not your fault...”

“You don’t understand,” exasperates Bruce, burying his face into his hands.

“But I do,” the elder claims, “In view of the nature of the situation, and given your character, it's not unhabitual to be plagued by self-doubt, along with feeling responsible for an outcome of which you had no control over. Then again, do understand. What Jerome Valeska did has got  _ nothing  _ to do with you. Your actions didn’t drive him to take his. It was pre-planned from the beginning to cause chaos in the city, and he succeeded. That’s all this is. You played no part in what had happened, Bruce.”

“But, for all I know, I could’ve been the catalyst...” 

A brief pause transpires. 

One fleeting moment. 

“Yes, perhaps, you could have,” his father shrugs almost casually, “Or, perhaps, not. I, for one, choose to believe the latter.”

With that said, Bruce’s head tilts to his right, utterly perplexed. “Aren’t you mad that I went against you to help Jeremiah as I had?”

The smile plastered on Thomas’ face falters slightly. “I was,” he sighs again, “Admittedly, I still am, but would it in sooth make a difference had I confronted you about it?” The boy remains silent. “I’ve come to terms that I can’t stop you from wanting to help your friend, and though I still very much dislike the idea of you mucking about matters revolving Galavan, I’d despise it even more if you were in it on your own. So, if there’s anything that you need, anything at all, you let me know and be rest assured that I’ll do everything in my power to help.”

“That’s not necessary...”

“The decision has been made.” His father’s smile may be radiating warmth, yet his eyes glisten unmistakably with concern and a manifesting hint of dolour. “It’s the least I could do to make sure that you’re safe.”

Something tugs heavily at his heartstrings, and Bruce knows not of how to react. 

Granted, his nescient self appreciates the offer, discovering much later the perquisites of being shielded under his father’s wings, to which Bruce then painstakingly learns in an impending future that he  _ never _ should’ve allowed him to be dragged into the picture in the first place. That Bruce should’ve declined, persisted so, and left it simply as the way it was before. He watches now in silence as Thomas draws in a deep breath, sitting upright before resting his back comfortably against the couch, unbeknownst to Bruce, the only son of Wayne, that this particular session in his father’s study - as rare as it can be, and will always be - would replay in his head like a broken vinyl record for years to come.

“Say, Bruce, remember when you’d suggested for us a short getaway to a resort on a mountain not too long ago?” Thomas enquires, “What was the name of that place again? Kansas?”

Recalling, the boy nods. “Yes, the Kansas Mountain Resort.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” his father’s smile widens as he mirrors his prior clasp of hands, “What say you to a weekend trip up there, followed by another week and a half of travelling elsewhere? As sudden as it may seem, and it  _ is _ quite precipitous, I figured some time off together as a family would do us well, considering the overdue.”

Bruce sits up in mild surprise. “Where are we going? When?”

“Your mother has yet to decide,” Thomas lets out a small laugh, “Alfred, on the other hand, insists on staying to look after the manor, so it’s just the three of us this time around.”

“But a week and a half?” Bruce ponders, “I mean, could you leave for that long?”

“That does seem a bit too extensive, doesn’t it?” His father shrugs again. “Well, I’m afraid that Wayne Corp will simply have to endure the dark unruly period of my unprecedented absence. In addition, I extend my utmost faith and credit to Lucius who will doubtlessly do a fine job steering the company whilst I’m gone.”

Hesitantly, Bruce nods in silence. Not that he doubts Lucius Fox, of course. 

He merely finds his father’s abruptness, slightly, alarming. 

“Perhaps you could help your mother decide on our destination, Bruce. God help us all if she chooses Milan again. A week and a half of shopping. Imagine that.” Grin widening, Thomas stands onto his feet with Bruce following suit apprehensively, nodding towards the door before retreating to his unkempt desk, eyes widening all of a sudden. “Speaking of whom, we have  _ woefully  _ dragged our time for far too long, Bruce. Save yourself and run along now,” his father decidedly jokes, “I’ll join you for dinner shortly.” 

Actually, it’s safe to say that he finds all of this more than just alarming.

Though, he can’t quite put his finger on it yet.

The grin on his father’s face then falters slightly, prompting Bruce to be on high alert as the elder adds thereafter, “I do hope you take into heart of what we’ve discussed today, son. Remember that you can always come to me for anything, and if you ever need someone to talk to, know that both your mother and I will always be around to listen.”

“Is something wrong?” Bruce questions at once as worry begins to seep through, surrendering to the fact that he’s nowhere near figuring out what the problem is on his own.

His father arches a brow. “You know, I’m the one who should be asking you that.”

“The tables have turned,” Bruce argues with reason, “What’s going on, Dad?”

A momentary pause.

Reluctantly, Thomas yields, eventually, breathing out a heavy sigh as he begins rearranging the documents splayed across his desk, overtly avoiding meeting his son’s eyes. 

“If you must know… I’d received a call today from one of our board’s directors requesting for a duration of absence… Compassionate… As it turned out, her daughter was one of the students aboard the bus this morning.” Stacking some documents together, his father carries on, grimacing and not once looking up. “Much like the rest of us, she spends most of her time committed to work, striving for the good of our company, and with that, it doesn’t leave enough room for anything or anyone else. Not even her only child. It, um… It made me reflect on the time that I’ve been able to spare to be spent with you and your mother, and… Well, I guess you could say that I’m trying to make up for what’s lost before.”

Parched lips pressing into a thin line, the boy nods, slowly, both out of understanding, and of rue.

He  _ is _ , in which case, the impetus of Jerome Valeska’s execrable ferity.

“I know what you’re thinking, Bruce, and you should stop,” his father reminds, looking up at last, and Bruce’s heart sinks further into his gut. “It’s not your fault, son. I’d rather you not beat yourself up about it, thinking that you deserve blame.”

He tries.

He really does, but to no avail. 

“I understand...” Bruce could only utter quietly.

He gets it now. 

He gets the queries.

He gets the uncalled-for display of regard, and most certainly, the logic behind his father’s unwonted sentimentalism about his well being. 

Bruce gets it. 

Prior to leaving, he speaks up before shutting the wooden door behind him, witnessing his words reanimate a vanished smile on his father’s face, to which Bruce reciprocates with one of his own.

“You too...” the son of Wayne had said.

******  
**

~~~~ **  
**

 

Sinking heavily into the driver’s seat, James Gordon remains unmoving.

An empty sidewalk, dimly illuminated, somewhat becomes a comforting sight, and exhaustion finds its way into his system, washing over body and limb, rendering him wearied and debilitated. 

_ “Go home, Jim... We’ll take it from here.” _

_ “I’m fine, Harvey.” _

_ “Like hell you are.” _

The radio plays softly in the background and he switches it off, drowning himself instead with a lingering silence filling the cabin, chaperoned by nothing else but his wretched thoughts and one even more wretched memory of a burning bus.

_ “Come on, I’m walking you to your goddamn car.” _

_ “No.” _

_ “Move your ass and let’s-” _

_ “Get your fucking hands off of me, Harvey.” _

The screams.

The scorching heat.

The begging.

It breaks him.

_ “There wasn’t anything that you could’ve done to stop it, Jim.” _

Balled fists form, only to release seconds later.

Jim tries to calm down.

His wife, Lee, would’ve said the same thing, wouldn’t she?

“It’s not your fault, Jim.”

Her kind words, predictable.

The lights to the living room of his apartment are still on, as it seems.

Wiping a trembling hand over his face, James Gordon gathers himself, climbing out of his parked vehicle to make his way towards the building before him.

Returning home.

******  
**

~~~~

******  
**

Paralyzed, as he stands, frozen.

One deep breath becomes two, and then, three, and by the suffocating fourth, Jeremiah pushes the door open into a familiar bedroom, idle since the day Jerome had left. Gritting his teeth, the Valeska scans around, bearing an over-weighing claustrophobic feeling as he considers entering, and the unaltered dispositions of each item and furniture arranged in his brother’s room reminds him of a lost comforting warmth. He’d done his best, by memory, ensuring that everything within was placed back in the way of which they were before, considering that he’s not one to bear contrariety. Days after the GCPD had so rudely ransacked the bedroom, Jeremiah had, one sleepless night, found himself wandering in to realign every wry anomaly within said walls, knowing how the finical twin would’ve hated for his belongings to be impermissionedly moved, brooking a naive assumption - unknowingly, at the same time - in false hope that Jerome would, some time in the future, return to their now futile apartment, reclaiming his room once again, and would return to Jeremiah’s side like he had always used to prior.

Admittedly, he, the forlorned, would have waited for the arrival of that one designated day, heralding their impending reunion. No matter the repercussions or whichever reality may hold forward, Jeremiah really could have. 

Now, he’s not so sure anymore.

_ "Jay, I need to ask…" _

_ "Shoot," Jerome encouraged carefreely, bumping their shoulders together like they’d used to when they were kids, "I'm all ears, Miah." _

_ He swallowed anxiously. "Have you ever wondered... h-how our lives would've been if we were born somewhere else?" _

_ "Well, I used to," his twin had admitted quietly, kicking the soil beneath his shoes. From the corner of his eye, Jeremiah had spotted a momentary downturn of lips. "Then, I quit thinking about it." _

_ "Why?" _

_ "Didn't see a point, I guess,” Jerome had replied, shrugging, “We were, I don't know, about twelve. The circus was all that we had. We didn't know anyone from the outside and we definitely had nowhere else to go. Figured to screw it and make the best out of it, you know? Have fun, cause some fuckin' trouble. I mean, our lives were fucked up, sure, there's no doubt about it, but I had you..." _

Dragging reluctant feet onward, Jeremiah steps into his brother’s vacant room, biting down harshly at quivering lips. 

If given a recourse, he, the abandoned, would’ve traded anything to unwind time. 

Anything at all. 

He’d turn it back within half of a heartbeat.

And through what may be considered a fool’s thought, entertaining the puerile idea of viable time-jumps, Jeremiah then shamefully labels himself a despicable hypocrite and an abhorrent sham for he knows, deep down in his marred heart, that if the situation allows, he  _ never  _ would be able to pull through. It matters not of how badly he’d wish that he could, Jeremiah, most unfortunately,  _ won’t _ , not when the peremptory reversal simultaneously means losing Bruce and what they now have altogether, and a sharp pang of guilt slices through flesh.

_ “Nobody can change the past, Miah.” _

In his memory, his brother’s words ring true.

_ “What we can change is how we look at it, and learn to laugh about it because, trust me, it makes everything easier." _

Jeremiah wishes that he could.

He really does.

_ "Yet somehow, I still find that hard to do," he’d uttered, catching glimpse of a tiny robin flying by to perch on a nearby branch above their heads, a poignant reminder of those caged birds Jeremiah had often seen in the circus, resembling a freedom restrained that is all much too familiar, "Somehow, I can't see the funny side, Jay. All I can see, and feel, and process is pain and suffering. The memories that haunt me-" _

_ "Are nothing but memories," Jerome had interjected immediately, resting an arm around hunched shoulders, lowering his voice to speak quietly enough for only them to hear. "They're just memories, Miah... Nothing more... They can't hurt you..." _

A puerile idea, yet assuaging, nonetheless.

Despite everything, Jeremiah still misses him.

He misses the closeness, the warmth underneath his touch.

He misses their conversations and, strangely enough, he misses his voice.

He misses the way he laughs, the way he speaks to him, and the name he calls him by.

He misses waking up to mornings where he’d swing open his bedroom door and be boisterously greeted by his insufferably annoying twin brother.

He misses him...

He misses Jerome.

And it aches, knowing that reliving those withering moments of blithe could be only imaginary, for how could they both?

Too much has happened.

Too much has changed.

And to whom does the fault belong?

_ "But I can still remember," Jeremiah choked out, "Jay, I remember everything."  _

He misses him, more than anything, but at the same time, he absolutely  _ loathes  _ him.

Out of impulsive resentment, Jeremiah begins hurling objects blindly across the room, expressing a most perturbed discontent in the only way he knows how at this very point.

It’s all fucked, anyways, so why should he even bother?

_ "I'll help you forget.” _

His brother’s voice echoes in the back of his head as a numbed forearm collides with instruments splayed atop an already unused desk.

_ “I'll help you to move on. Miah, I'll help you through everything. You just have to let me know when something's wrong," Jerome had spoken softly, face hovering merely inches away from his, "You're my brother and I'll always be here for you. I'll do anything for you. I'm here, Miah, always, even when you get sick of me." _

Blood drips onto wood.

Glass crushing under filthier shoes.

Broken frames and faded photos.

_ "I'll never get sick of you," Jeremiah said quietly, "You're the only family I have." _

_ "And families stick together," Jerome had merely whispered back.  _

_ It was an old promise, one binding the twins since adolescence. Chapped lips pulling into a smile, Jeremiah nodded, repeating his brother's words to himself as Jerome rested his forehead against his, shoulders slumping as relief washed over the other twin. _

Hands trembling uncontrollably.

Reddened eyes and tear-streamed.

Breathing becomes a struggling pursuit.

All Jeremiah had ever wished to have was a normal life.

Gazing upon a distant star behind his dusty bedroom window of their mother’s old trailer, he’d decided then.

Was it all too much to ask?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys had a wonderful February :D
> 
> Thank you so much for coming back to this story once again, despite the long wait. This note is going to be comparably short because I'm off to sort some things out before hopping on to write the next chapter! As always, leave a kudo or a comment as you wish, and I hope you guys have another wonderful month! But, here's to the possibility of actually posting in the next two weeks and every two weeks after that, because that was initially the plan after starting my new job.
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for coming back & have an amazing day, you! :D


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